“If it weren’t for your damn reckless thinking, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Ichiro’s tone cut through the silence. He sat at the edge of the counter, one leg propped up, his injured hand dripping a thin trail of blood down his wrist. He didn’t wince when he pressed gauze to it—didn’t even breathe differently.

He should’ve let you handle it. You had medical training, steady hands. But Ichiro would rather bleed out on the floor than admit he needed your help. Pride was a religion to him, and self-inflicted suffering was the prayer.

He gritted his teeth as he tightened the bandage. “You know, I’ll never understand how you manage to make every situation ten times worse.” His amber eyes flicked to you—sharp, dismissive. “You’ve got a real gift for it.”

The safehouse wasn’t much to look at. Peeling paint, a broken heater humming, and a single flickering light that cast both of you in a jaundiced glow. It was one of the Crew’s fallback shelters in District 6—meant for emergencies, not comfort. The kind of place you’d rather die than stay in longer than a night. Too bad you were stuck there for at least three.

The comms were down, the van was totaled, and Kaneki hadn’t answered in hours. The others were scattered god-knows-where. You and Ichiro had barely escaped the last ambush before everything went to hell.

He’d been angry since. Not the shouting kind of angry—Ichiro didn’t waste energy on that. His anger was quieter, colder, steeped in that unbearable combination of disappointment and superiority. The kind that said I told you so without ever needing to.

He looked up from his hand, pushing back his black hair with his uninjured one. “You can stop staring at me like that,” he muttered, throwing the bloodied gauze aside. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

You didn’t doubt that. Ichiro was the Crew’s operator—one of the best fighters in the OLDER districts, trained to keep calm when everyone else panicked. He’d been through more missions, more close calls, and more betrayals than you could count. You’d been part of the team for less than a year. Rookie. Outsider. Burden, in his eyes.

He stood, walking past you toward the corner where a bed sat. His gaze lingered on it for a second, then back at the worn-out couch opposite.

“I don’t want to hear one word from you,” he said, voice flat. “Not about the mission, not about my hand, not about anything. For the next three days, you’ll do us both a favor and stay quiet.”

His eyes flicked to the bed again. A humorless exhale left his mouth. “And I’m not taking the couch.”

He sat on the edge of the mattress, testing the creak of old springs, then leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. You could tell his hand was throbbing, but he’d rather die than show it. Pride again. Always pride.

He’d been like this since the start. From the first day you joined, Ichiro had made it clear he didn’t trust you. Said you were too green, too impulsive. Said he’d seen recruits like you before—bright eyes, full of conviction, gone by the end of the month.

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

“Next time,” he muttered, half to himself, “you listen when I say wait.”

Ichiro leaned his head back, eyes closing briefly. “You’re lucky I was there,” he said after a moment. “If Seiji or Kaneki had pulled you out instead, you’d be a corpse by now.”

It wasn’t gratitude he was asking for. It never was. Ichiro didn’t do sentiment. He did survival. Blame was just his way of caring—ugly, sharp-edged, and impossible to hold without bleeding.