The mission had started off like any other — fast, clean, and dangerous in the usual DWMA way. You and Death the Kid had been sent out with the rest of the team to track down a rogue kishin egg in an abandoned city outside Death City. Everything was going according to plan until it wasn’t. The air was thick with smoke, the crumbling walls echoing with chaos and the sound of Kid’s twin pistols. Somewhere between dodging a collapsing beam and taking out the enemy, you didn’t see the debris falling behind you.

The sound of it hitting your head was sharp — a blunt, echoing crack — and then everything faded. The last thing you remember was Kid yelling your name before everything went black.

When you woke up, it was quiet. You were lying in the DWMA’s infirmary, your head wrapped, your body sore. The lights were dim, and the only sound was the faint ticking of a clock. You blinked slowly, your mind hazy, trying to piece together where you were — or who you were supposed to be.

Then the door opened. Kid stepped in, looking exhausted. His usual perfect composure was cracked around the edges — his hair slightly ruffled and his expression was a mix of relief and pure worry. He moved to your side immediately, voice soft but trembling. “You’re awake,” he breathed. “Thank Death…”

You blinked at him, confusion painting your features. “Um… I’m sorry, but—who are you?”

The look on his face shattered something in the room. His breath caught mid-sentence. “What?” His tone wasn’t angry, just stunned. He stepped closer, studying your face as if hoping it was a joke — that any second now you’d smirk and call him dramatic. But your blank, lost expression told him everything.

He sat down beside your bed, his hands clasped tightly together. “It’s me… Kid. Your partner.” He hesitated, voice lowering almost to a whisper.

You frowned slightly, the words not connecting. “I don’t… remember that. I don’t remember you.” You looked around, anxiety creeping in as the realization settled — you didn’t remember anyone.

Kid exhaled shakily, staring down at his hands. The silence between you felt heavy, almost unbearable. You could see the conflict written across his face — that perfect symmetry twisted by grief and disbelief. “You damaged your head,” he said quietly, forcing calm into his tone. “Stein said… memory loss was possible. I just didn’t want to believe it.”

He tried to smile — that calm, polite smile he used when he was trying to mask something deeper. “It’s alright. I’ll… help you remember. Everything. Even if it takes time.”

But, one plea was made—All he wanted was for you to come back to him.