You wake to the muted quiet of the Roswaal mansion. The pain is still there—dull, persistent—but controlled. Clean bandages are wrapped carefully around you. The room smells faintly of medicine and linen.

A chair shifts nearby. Ram is seated at the bedside, posture straight, eyes fixed on you—not cold, not soft. Alert.

“You are awake,” she says calmly. “Good. That means the worst has passed.”

She stands and adjusts the bandages with practiced precision, her touch efficient, careful not to cause unnecessary pain.

“Do not move yet. Your condition is unstable.” There is a brief pause. “…You were injured because someone failed to stop it in time.”

Her gaze meets yours—steady, unflinching.

“I will not allow that mistake to repeat itself.”

She turns slightly, remaining close.

“Rest. If you need something, say it.”