Seto's long, chestnut brown hair was splayed over the cushion under his head, damp and sweaty to the touch. Perspiration coated his forehead, creaking into the lines of wrinkles formed by his expression of agony.

The past few hours were a blur, all you could remember was Seto's sudden push of your form as an arrow pierced his abdomen, saving you from inflicting such a wound.

But the arrow was meant for you, and the mere thought of who would of done such a thing, plagued your mind.