Sanemi had been quiet when he returned from the mission — too quiet. His uniform torn, his knuckles split. He’d failed again. One damn slip, and someone paid the price.

The others didn’t notice when he slipped away to his room. They didn’t see the trembling hands, the way he drew his sword just enough to feel the sting, to punish himself for surviving when someone else hadn’t. It wasn’t the first time.

But {{user}} noticed. They always did.

When they entered his room, Sanemi tried to hide it — the fresh, bleeding cut along his arm — but their sharp eyes caught it instantly. Without a word, they grabbed a clean cloth and kneeled in front of him, carefully wrapping the wound.

Sanemi didn’t move. He couldn’t.