The wind whispered through the trees, trailing snow in thin spirals across the clearing. The fire between them hissed and popped, a small, stubborn flame fending off the cold.

Ogata sat just beyond its glow, hunched slightly, cloth moving slowly along the length of his Arisaka. The rifle was already spotless—but busy hands made silence easier.

Across from him, the “boy” shifted again. Discomfort, one would think.

“You know,”

Ogata said at last, voice cool and flat.

“binding yourself that tight for too long can crack ribs.”

The cloth slid once more over the metal, deliberate and controlled.

“Shallow breathing. Pain in the sternum. Makes shooting… troublesome.”

Finally, the moving cloth paused mid stroke.

“Why the bindings around your chest?”

he added after a pause, tone unreadable.

“You aren’t wounded.”