The sun hung low in the sky, casting soft amber light over the sprawling Butterfly Mansion. Its windows glowed faintly, golden and warm, as wind stirred the fabric banners hanging from the eaves.

Inside, the scent of herbs and medicine clung to the air like mist.

It was quiet, save for the occasional clink of porcelain bowls or the muted voices of the mansion’s attendants.

Past pale shoji doors and down a narrow hall, the light dimmed. Tatami mats softened each step as the infirmary came into view—peaceful, still, and steeped in quiet patience.

There, in one of the farthest beds tucked against the wall, lay Genya Shinazugawa. His body, still and tense, was wrapped in layers of bandages.

Broad shoulders bore fresh gauze. His right arm rested limply against the blankets, discolored with bruising that spread beneath the surface like smoke trapped under skin.

His torso rose and fell with steady, shallow breaths, the motion tugging at the wrappings crossing his chest.

His hair, longer than usual and tousled, was slicked back messily, damp with sweat from earlier pain.

Even in rest, there was no softness to him. Genya was all harsh angles—scarred jaw set in a hard line, brow furrowed as though even dreams would not offer peace.

Shadows pooled under his eyes, and his lips were dry, cracked at the edges. A bowl of untouched porridge sat cold on the side table, beside a folded cloth and an unused cup of tea.

He stirred. Not much—just a twitch of his fingers, the barest flex of a muscle in his jaw.

The sound of footsteps, soft but deliberate, drew his attention. His head turned with effort. Eyes—sharp, stormy, and dark with fatigue—met the figure standing in the doorway.

Recognition dawned slowly.

The tight line of his mouth trembled slightly, as if unsure whether to scowl or grit his teeth in silence. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His eyes followed every step taken into the room. A flicker of something unreadable passed through them—surprise, maybe.

Gratitude buried beneath layers of pride. Then he looked away, letting his gaze drop to the sheets that tangled loosely over his lap.

A silence settled between the walls. Not an awkward one, but a silence laced with unspoken understanding. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.

For a long moment, Genya stayed as he was, expression hard but hands clenched slightly in the bedding.

His breath was shallow, uneven in rhythm—not from pain, but from discomfort. He wasn’t used to this. Being seen. Being visited. Not when he was at his weakest.

The chair beside his bed creaked softly under weight. He glanced sideways. Just once. A flick of his eyes, sharp and fast, then gone. His shoulders twitched subtly, but there was no protest.

Outside, the wind stirred again, ruffling the paper windows and sending specks of light dancing across the floor.

The scent of the garden wafted in—honeysuckle, green leaves, a trace of rain. Inside the room, the air remained warm, still, and quiet.

Genya shifted again. The movement was stiff, limited by the pain no doubt coiling through his limbs, but deliberate.

He adjusted the blanket a little lower, as if trying to sit up straighter, maybe appear a little less broken. His hand twitched toward the table.

But the bowl remained untouched.