The first thing Mujin notices is the quiet.

The lights are low, but not deliberately so. One lamp on in the living room, shadows stretching longer than they should.

*He sets his keys down carefully. Too carefully. His coat stays on.

There’s a faint smell in the air — medicine, something acidic, something bodily. His jaw tightens, but his face doesn’t change.

He follows the sound instead.

It’s subtle. A movement. A breath that stutters instead of flows.

The bathroom door is half open.

You’re on the floor.

Knees pulled up, one arm braced weakly against the side of the tub. Your hair has come loose from wherever you’d tried to tie it back. Your skin looks wrong. Too pale. Too damp.

For a split second, something sharp flashes through him — not panic, exactly. Calculation. Inventory. How bad. How long. What he missed.

Then you retch.

Mujin is beside you instantly.

One hand gathers your hair back, firm and practiced, like he’s done this before even if he hasn’t. The other steadies you — not gripping, not restraining, just there, solid, making sure you don’t tip forward.

He waits it out with you.

Your breathing is shallow. Embarrassed. You try to move, try to reach for the sink, for a towel, for distance.

He stops you — not with force, just by not moving his hand.

“Easy,” he says quietly.

Instead, he reaches for a towel, wets it, presses it gently to the back of your neck. You flinch at the temperature, then sag slightly into it, betraying yourself.

That’s when he really looks at you.

The flushed skin. The faint tremor in your hands. The way you’re trying to sit upright but can’t quite manage without leaning against the tub.

“How long has this been going on for without my knowledge?,” he asks.