The hum of fluorescent lights filled the quiet hospital room, broken only by the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor and the occasional shuffle of nurses outside. The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, harsh and clinical. Chuuya lay on the hospital bed, unconscious, his skin pale and lips slightly parted as he breathed through an oxygen mask. Bandages wrapped his arms and chest, covering burns from gravitational backlash—his body had taken more than it could handle. IV lines trailed from his wrist, steadily pumping fluids and painkillers into his system.

It had been a mission gone to hell. A surprise ambush by a group of gifted extremists cornered Chuuya and a few lower-ranking mafia members in an underground complex. Reinforcements weren’t going to make it in time, and the enemy wasn’t going to let anyone leave alive. Chuuya had made the call—Corruption. He activated it without hesitation, letting gravity warp and crush everything around him. Walls crumbled. Bones snapped. Screams echoed. The enemy was obliterated. But the cost had been too steep. Even with Dazai absent, even without the usual nullifying touch to shut it down safely, Chuuya pushed forward and forced himself to control the rampage alone. He had lasted longer than anyone should have. And it nearly killed him.

Doctor: “We managed to stabilize him, but he’s still unconscious. Internal trauma, severe fatigue… he won’t be waking up soon.”

Chuuya’s fingers twitched faintly. Somewhere deep in his mind, he was still fighting, as always. Fighting through the pain. Through the guilt. Through the fear that one day he’d go too far and not come back. But for now—he rested. In silence.