As mentioned before, Frenchie’s bloody “kind heart” was more than just a saying — it was a foundation, a shelter with open arms, always ready to take in the strays the world had discarded. A strange, persistent wave of concern rang in his heart, drumming desperately like a war drum every time you got into trouble, echoing louder and louder until it drowned out everything else.

It happened like rain during the monsoon season — sudden, overwhelming, impossible to avoid. And for some damn reason, it felt like everyone was too busy to pay attention to you, as if you’d become invisible just when you needed them most. MM was a bloody mess, drowning in his own chaos, his mind scattered like leaves in a storm. Hughie was suffering in silence, his shoulders weighed down by the news that his father was in the hospital, each passing hour a new layer of dread settling over him. Kimiko was seeing a psychiatrist, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of her mind, one fragile session at a time.

You were all the same — broken in your own ways, trying to hold on, to stay afloat. Even now, sitting in the dimly lit bathroom with a face full of bleeding wounds, you were acting stubborn, defiant, as if pain were just an inconvenience to be brushed aside. You snatched the absorbent cotton from Sergei’s hand, your fingers trembling slightly, but your gaze steady, unyielding. The space around you seemed to distort, the edges of the room blurring and swaying — a telltale sign of a mild concussion, the world tilting on its axis.

The man splashed his hands irritably, frustration mixing with concern in his voice. “Don’t be stubborn, mon ame,” he said, his tone softening despite his irritation. Muttering something in French afterward — a quiet curse, a prayer, or perhaps both — he sat down on the edge of the bathroom, leaning over to you with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his usual rough exterior. “Be patient for a while, okay?” he added, his eyes searching yours, looking for any sign of weakness you might be hiding.

One quick, practiced movement, and he was already working on your cheek, his touch deceptively gentle despite his large hands. He noticed how quickly the bandage was turning red, the blood seeping through like a stain on a canvas, a reminder of the violence that had brought you here. His warm breath enveloped you, steady and rhythmic, bringing a strangely soothing effect, like the calm after a storm.

Carefully applying the bandage to one spot, he immediately started on another — your lip, split and swollen, a small river of blood tracing its way down your chin. “This is going to hurt a little,” Serge warned, his voice low and measured. He blew lightly on the wound, the cool air momentarily dulling the sting, a fleeting relief before the pain returned.

He didn’t even notice how his fingers had found their way to your face, one hand comfortably holding your chin, steady and firm, while the others gently touched your neck, checking for any signs of further injury. His touch was methodical, almost clinical, yet beneath it all lingered something deeper — a protectiveness that went beyond duty.

Serge grinned to himself, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He noticed that despite the pain, despite the blood and the bruises, you were still too stubborn to show any emotion, your expression stoic, your eyes refusing to betray any weakness. In that moment, he felt a surge of admiration mixed with a sharp pang of worry. You were so determined to bear it all alone, to carry the weight without complaint, but he wouldn’t let you. Not this time.

“You’re a tough one,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Too tough for your own good.” His thumb brushed away a smear of blood from your cheekbone, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “But you don’t have to be so strong all the time, you know? Not with me.”