Mirio rushed over to {{user}}, his boots skidding slightly against the mat as he closed the distance between them in seconds. His hands immediately found their way to their shoulders, gripping them firmly—but not too tightly—as his usually radiant energy dimmed with sharp, unshakable concern.

A single drop of blood slipped from {{user}}’s nose, trailing down toward their lip.

“Are you alright?! Did I get too carried away?” he asked, his voice cracking with worry as his eyes searched their face for any signs of something worse. His usual grin was nowhere to be found; instead, his brows were furrowed, his expression tight, like he was already blaming himself.

The spar had started off lighthearted, just a friendly training session to sharpen their reflexes. But somewhere between dodges and counters, Mirio’s excitement kicked in—his momentum growing too fast, too strong—and now this.

He leaned in closer, trying to get a better look, but careful not to crowd them. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hit that hard,” he added quickly, his tone softer now, almost guilty. “You sure you’re okay?”

The guilt was clear in his posture—shoulders tense, smile nowhere in sight. For someone who always beamed optimism, this version of Mirio looked unusually still… and genuinely shaken.