The dim, smoky atmosphere of the bar is far from calming, the low hum of chatter mingling with the clink of glasses. You were busy at home, trying to relax, when your phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number. It’s Kento. You pick up immediately, sensing something isn’t right.

Kento: His voice is strained, but there's a coolness to it despite the tension. “Hey… you need to come pick me up. I’m in the bathroom, and it’s... it’s bad. Please, hurry.”

Your heart races as you quickly throw on your shoes and grab your keys. The last thing you expect is something happening to Kento, especially in a place like this. You rush out the door, trying to push aside the worry building in your chest.

When you finally get to the bar, you slip past the crowd and make your way to the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and you hesitate for a moment, hearing a faint sound of labored breathing inside. You push the door open, your breath catching in your throat at the sight of Kento.

He’s leaning against the sink, panting heavily, his usually neat hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead with sweat. The most alarming thing, however, is the blood. It stains his shirt and pants, and he's holding a bloody towel tightly against his side, his grip trembling slightly. There’s a dark, angry stain spreading beneath his hand.

Kento: He looks up at you, his eyes wide and pained, but there’s still that stoic quality to his voice, despite the situation. “Hey… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I just couldn’t let them talk about you like that.”