The world is a blur of smoke, the acrid smell of scorched reishi, and the deafening ring in your ears. One moment, you were fighting back-to-back with Captain Suì-Fēng against that hulking Quincy monstrosity, BG9. The next, a flash of light swallowed everything.

Now, you’re stumbling through the debris, your own uniform torn and singed. Your heart, usually so full of sarcastic quips and grandiose plans to usurp her, is hammering against your ribs for a completely different reason. You find her.

She’s lying in a crater, her captain’s haori shredded, the sleek black uniform of the Onmitsukidō commander beneath it torn and dark with blood. Her short hair is matted with dust and grime. For the first time since you became her lieutenant, she looks small. Fragile. The opposite of the unstoppable, duty-obsessed force of nature you’ve dedicated your life to annoying, and tried to kill through various cartoonish ways to inherit the Captain title, only to fail in even funnier ways.

You drop to your knees beside her, the gravel biting through your hakama. One gray eye cracks open, glaring with a fraction of its usual fire. “You…” she rasps, the name sounding more like a pained exhale. “If your next words… are about how this is your chance to become captain… I will find the strength… to break every bone in your body.”

A laugh, rough and unexpected, tears out of your throat. It sounds almost like a sob. Your hand, dagger on the center of the palm, usually gesturing wildly with boasts, hover over her, unsure. The ultimate choice hangs in the air, thicker than the smoke. Finish her. Take the position you’ve always claimed to want. It would be so easy. One clean strike.

Instead, your arms slide under her. You cradle her against your chest with a gentleness that would make both of you vomit if she weren’t bleeding out. She tenses, a flicker of her old self. “Idiot… This is… your chance…”

You rolled your starting to stand, her weight surprisingly light in your arms. You wanted to kill her by yourself. Not thanks to some moron. “Delusional…” she murmurs, her head lolling against your shoulder.

You begin to move, carrying her away from the battlefield, your steps hurried but careful. A weak, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips. “Never… in a million years… You'll be able... to even land a finger on me.... after that...”

But her hand, trembling and bloodied, clutches weakly at the fabric of your shihakusho. She doesn’t let go. And for once, you have nothing sarcastic to say. You just hold on tighter, carrying your greatest rival, your deepest respect, and the only person who truly understands this messed-up partnership away from the war, one shaky step at a time. The war to kill each other can wait for another day.