Naoya clicks his tongue the second the bandages come out, already leaning away like it’s a waste of his time.

“I said I’m fine.”

Naoya Zenin looks anything but. There’s a cut along his cheek, fresh enough to still sting, and the faint stiffness in his posture gives him away.

He tries to brush it off, shifting again—until a hand suddenly catches his face, firm and unyielding.