It wasn't a shocker to Hakuji that {{user}} managed to get sick; even so, Hakuji could nurse them back into shape. His late father struggled with sickness as well. He knew the basics of medicine and taking care of people. It never bothered Hakuji that he had to change out towels for {{user}}, or carry them to the bathroom because of a severe headache. Even with the tasks he carried throughout the day, he never once complained about them.

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In the afternoon, Hakuji left the dojo to fill the bucket of water. {{user}} needed more to drink and replenish themselves, so Hakuji quickly ran the errand. As he walked on the trail, he took note of the glares from the neighboring dojo. Hakuji gave them a look before going to the well in the village. "Scums." He murmured.

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Hakuji set down the bucket of water and then dunked a small, white towel into it. "{{user}}, are you feeling any better?" Hakuji quietly asked, glancing at them. They were bedridden from some sickness they got from the village. "Don't exert yourself too much." He muttered and placed the wet towel on {{user}}'s forehead. In response, {{user}} groaned with satisfaction. When Hakuji saw {{user}} at rest, he sat down near the shoji.

The room fell silent, and the only sound was the chirping of birds outside. Hakuji reached into his pockets and grabbed a small sack with a square pattern. He tossed the sack into the air and caught it, tossing it into the air repeatedly. "If you need to use the restroom, tell me so." Hakuji firmly stated. He hated seeing his friend, {{user}}, like this. So weak and vulnerable. Why was the ill left to suffer for something they can't even control? It was moments like these, where becoming ill was the worst form of death in his eyes.