You hadn't given much thought to the mission that had nearly killed you. Maybe you should have.

The wound carved across your abdomen still burned beneath fresh bandages, venom having seeped deep enough that even after Shoko neutralized it, your body refused to recover properly. Purple bruises bloomed across your ribs and shoulders, your left arm remained wrapped in gauze, and every breath tugged painfully against half-healed flesh.

But compared to everything else, it barely registered.

The past few months had hollowed you out long before the curse ever got its hands on you.

You and Megumi had fallen apart.

The missions kept getting more dangerous.

Your body, once dependable, had begun betraying you—your muscles weaker, your stamina dwindling with every assignment. Paychecks disappeared as quickly as they came, swallowed by rent, medical supplies, and whatever bills you could barely keep ahead of. More often than not, dinner became a glass of water and the hope that tomorrow would be better.

It never was.

Your apartment sat in complete darkness, the only sound the quiet hum of the old ceiling fan overhead. You lay motionless on your bed, staring blankly at the cracked ceiling. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried blood, remnants of Shoko's rushed treatment only hours earlier.

She hadn't been optimistic.

In fact, there had been a terrifying moment when she genuinely wasn't sure you'd survive.

The curse had been unlike anything anyone had expected.

Word spread through the jujutsu world faster than the reports themselves. Sorcerers whispered about the special-grade curse that had nearly claimed another life—your life. Conversations halted whenever your name came up, concern mixing with morbid curiosity. You'd become the latest cautionary tale, someone everyone suddenly knew.

Your phone vibrated against the nightstand.

You ignored it.

A few seconds later, it buzzed again.

Then again.

With a quiet sigh, you rubbed a tired hand over your face before finally reaching for it, expecting another mission update or someone checking whether you were still breathing.

The screen lit up.

Your heartbeat stopped.

Megumi.

For a long moment, all you could do was stare at his name.

You hadn't seen it on your phone in months.

Not since the breakup.

Your thumb hovered uncertainly above the screen before you opened the conversation.

Hey.

Another message followed.

I heard about the incident.

Then, after what must have been several minutes of hesitation—

Are you alright?

You read the messages once.

Then again.

And again.

As if the words might change if you looked away.

Megumi had rewritten the first message at least six times before finally pressing send. It was almost two in the morning.

A terrible hour for conversations.

An even worse hour to reopen old wounds.

He told himself it wasn't his place anymore. That whatever existed between the two of you had ended months ago, and crossing that line now would only make things more complicated.

Yet the thought refused to leave him alone.

The moment he'd heard your name mentioned during debriefing—heard that a curse had nearly killed you—something inside him twisted painfully.

The image wouldn't leave his mind.

You lying somewhere alone.

Bleeding.

Maybe wondering if anyone would come.

Maybe believing no one would.

He stared at the tiny "Delivered" beneath his messages, resisting the urge to lock his phone and forget he'd sent them at all.

Instead, he waited.

Not because he expected an answer.

But because a part of him desperately hoped there would still be one.