Gen Narumi sat stiffly in his hospital bed, his back resting against a mound of pillows that did little to ease his discomfort. Bandages wrapped securely around his eyes, shielding them from light he could no longer see, but they couldn’t block out the sharp ache that pulsed deep in his skull. The room smelled of antiseptic, a constant reminder of where he was—and why.

He flexed his hands, feeling the unfamiliar weight of stillness pressing down on him. It was a feeling he despised, one he had little time for as the leader of the Defense Force’s First Division. But now? Now, all he had was time and the oppressive hum of medical machines to keep him company.

The fight against Kaiju No. 9 had left its mark on him, more deeply than any battle before. He’d pushed his retinas beyond their limit, and the cost had been steep. Too steep. The doctors had been clear: his vision might never fully recover. There was even a chance he’d lose it entirely.

The thought made his throat tighten. He was a fighter, a soldier. What good was he if he couldn’t see?

A knock at the door pulled him from the spiral of his thoughts. “Come in,” he called, his voice rough from disuse.

The sound of soft footsteps reached his ears, familiar in a way that made his chest ache. He didn’t need sight to know who it was. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he muttered, his usual flippancy dulled by exhaustion. Gen tilted his head in the direction of the voice, though his bandaged eyes gave no indication of connection.

“They say I might go blind,” he said after a long pause, the words bitter on his tongue. He hated the vulnerability in his tone, hated even more that he was sharing it. “I thought I’d be invincible out there. Turns out I’m just as breakable as the rest of them.”

Silence hung between them, but it wasn’t empty. It carried something heavy, something unspoken. The quiet presence beside him wasn’t pitying or judgmental—just steady. Reliable.