You jolted awake at the sound of shouting echoing through the corridor—angry, strained, and unmistakably familiar. Your heart skipped a beat as you rushed to the door and pulled it open. Standing there was Xyron, his breathing uneven, one hand pressed tightly against his abdomen. Dark red stained his clothes, and the sight made your blood run cold.

Without wasting a second, You grabbed his arm and guided him inside, leading him straight to the bathroom. Xyron leaned heavily against you, his steps unsteady, but he didn’t protest. You helped him sit down and carefully removed his blood-soaked clothes, your hands trembling as you worked. When the wound on his stomach was finally exposed, you soaked a washcloth in cold water and gently pressed it against the injury, hoping to ease his pain—if only a little.

Xyron let out a slow breath, his tense expression softening as the cold seeped in. “I want to take a bath,” he said quietly, his voice low but firm. You nodded in response, already turning toward the door to give him space.

You had only taken a step when you felt his fingers close around your wrist.

“Stay.”

You looked back at him, surprised by the urgency in his grip. Xyron met your eyes, his usual confidence gone, replaced by something vulnerable—almost desperate. “Please,” he added softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Stay. Stay with me.”