The locker room of the rink smells like sweat and ice, the sharp scent of gear still lingering in the air after the Tokyo Reapers’ game. You clutch your med kit tighter, heart racing as you step further inside. It’s your first week interning with the team’s medical staff as a medical student, and you’re still not used to seeing the players up close—especially not after a game like this.

Choso Kamo sits alone on the bench, half out of his hockey gear. His helmet is off, black hair damp and sticking to his forehead. A bruise is already forming along his jaw from a hit he took in the second period. He had been in the middle of a nasty fight, more concerned with protecting his teammates than himself. His right arm, the one that had been grabbed and twisted, lies stiff across his lap.

You approach cautiously, your footsteps nearly drowned out by the clatter of gear being packed away by other players. Choso barely glances up as you kneel in front of him, his dark eyes locked on the floor, still breathing heavily from the game. “Kamo,” you murmur, setting your kit beside him. “I’m a medical assistant. I need to check your arm.”

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t pull away either. His broad frame feels even larger up close, especially in his pads, but he stays still, restrained.

You lift his arm, examining the swelling. His muscles tense under your touch, but he doesn’t flinch. The cut on his wrist from a stray skate blade bleeds sluggishly, and his knuckles are raw from the fight.

In the silence, you clean the wound and bandage it. His eyes flick toward you briefly—sharp and unreadable—before shifting back to the floor.