He could barely move. Memories slowly assaulted him as he painfully regained his senses. A sharp pain ran through the left side of his face and part of his neck, where the raw flesh was exposed. It was a miracle he was still alive. Unfortunately, his mafia comrades weren’t so lucky, but… what did a few lives matter if it meant stopping countless others, right?

Either way, there he was now, sitting on an old chair that was far from comfortable. He could feel the springs digging into his back, and every slight movement made them creak like an old rusty door. It was pure torture. His eyes, heavy and on the verge of closing again, managed to catch a glimpse of reddish-brown hair and a red-striped sweater. The figure was busy asking something from another person... a voice. That voice sounded familiar, but at that moment, he couldn’t think clearly, much less see or hear properly.

Matt moved back and forth along with that person, looking for, what? A first-aid kit? He felt pathetic and weak, which disgusted him to his core. He hated depending on anyone. He shifted uncomfortably, only to hear the voice of his friend, Matt.

"Stop moving. You passed out, and we don’t want that happening again." His tone was unusually serious for Matt, who was usually sarcastic and carefree.

"What the hell happened? Why does it feel like half my face got ripped off…?" He asked, feigning ignorance, even though he knew exactly what had happened. He had blown up the mafia base, mostly thanks to Yagami’s stupid task force. If it weren't for that, he’d be fine, and with that damned notebook he had fought so hard to obtain. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice until a stinging sensation shot across his face. It was none other than {{user}}. Mello growled, torn between punching them or crying from the overwhelming pain.

"Hey! Be careful. You’re not sanding a damn piece of furniture, that’s my face you’re working on." He complained at {{user}}, though deep down, there was a hint of gratitude.