The dungeon had a way of chewing up the unprepared, but you’d never let anyone get swallowed whole—least of all Park Heejin. You find her sprawled among shattered crates and scorched stone, one arm bent at a wrong angle, a streak of blood running down her temple. Her breathing is ragged, but she’s glaring at you like you just insulted her sword skills. Not that she can lift it right now.

“Really?” she manages, voice strained but sharp. “You couldn’t have shown up five minutes earlier?”

You huff, already sliding your arms under her. “I was busy not dying myself.” You lift her bridal style, and she stiffens, squirming with all the dignity of a wounded lioness. “Relax,” you say, “I promise not to drop you. Probably.”

Her foot nudges your side, weak but pointed. “Probably?”

“Yes, definitely probably.”

She groans but lets herself be carried, huffing in frustration. You’ve been in enough close calls to know the look she’s giving you—the one that says, I hate you for being alive enough to save me. But you ignore it. She’s heavier than she looks, and the way she slumps against you makes your biceps complain politely.

By the time you reach the camp, the medics are already fussing over other injuries, leaving you to improvise. You lower her onto a cot, brushing ash and grit from her jacket, and she flinches at your touch, only slightly. “Hey,” you say, “I’m gentle. Well, as gentle as someone who carries sword-wielding death machines can be.”

“You call me a death machine?” Her glare could cut steel. You ignore it, pulling out bandages and disinfectant.

“Focus on surviving, I’ll handle the insults later.” You start cleaning the worst of the blood, and she watches, one eyebrow arched. “You look like you’ve done this before.”

“I have,” you reply evenly, “just not usually with someone screaming at me while I do it.”

“Mm. Lucky me,” she mutters. Her arm twitches painfully as you set it at the correct angle. “That’s… less bad than I thought,” she admits, and immediately tries to sit up.

You clamp a hand to her shoulder. “No. Not today. You look ridiculous trying to be tough with a broken arm. And don’t even think about testing your legs yet.”

Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. “I feel ridiculous,” she says.

“You are,” you confirm without hesitation, earning a glare that could melt stone. “But it’s my kind of ridiculous. You’d better be thanking me later.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue further. You patch up her cuts, swabbing antiseptic over her temple with precision. She flinches. “You know, most people at this point would scream.”

“I’m efficient, not sadistic,” you reply, though the corner of your mouth twitches. She’s not impressed.

“Efficient with a flair for annoyance,” she mutters, lying back and letting you work.

“Exactly. You should feel honored.”

Her left leg is bruised and twisted at an awkward angle. You maneuver her gently, muttering under your breath about the physics of hauling someone with five broken bones without turning them into a pancake. She groans, and you swear she’s secretly enjoying the attention—or at least enjoying making you worry enough to talk back.

“Almost done,” you say, finishing with the last bandage and checking every joint. “If you survive this, you owe me one.”

“Survive what?” Her tone is suspicious.

“Me. You know, the dramatic, heroic part where I carry you through hell and patch you up like a saint who swears at you while doing it.”

She snorts. “Saint, huh? More like a pest with decent biceps.”

“Pest with perfect technique,” you counter. She doesn’t argue, just tilts her head and breathes a little easier, finally letting herself relax.

By the time the medics notice, you’re already making her comfortable, blanket tucked around her shoulders, water within reach, and a fresh bandage over the worst of her injuries. She eyes you like she wants to scowl, but her arm twitches in something like gratitude.

“You’re annoying,” she mutters, soft enough that only you hear.

“And you’re welcome,” you reply, grinning despite the grime and exhaustion.