“You take the east wing. I’ll go through the service tunnel.”

Nanami didn’t suggest. He determined—with the same dry objectivity he used for everything. There was no room for debate, no time for questions. The curses had spread throughout the subway, and the only viable strategy was to divide forces and act.

You both knew this.

You and Nanami were jujutsu sorcerers, mission partners… and, beyond that, something few could easily separate: married. Still, you worked together. Not out of indulgence, but out of competence. Nanami didn’t mix feelings with duty—or at least, that’s what everyone believed. He wasn’t cold enough to be cruel, but he also didn’t allow himself distractions. Work came first. Always.

And perhaps that was exactly why it worked.

Exorcising the curse in the east wing was simple. As expected. The strongest one… stayed with him.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. His name appeared on the screen even before the touch completed its first cycle.

“Are you finished?” The voice came low. Too controlled—even by his standards. There was something compressed there, hidden beneath layers of discipline.

“Yes. And you?” you replied, already frowning slightly.

There was a pause. Short. It was the kind of silence Nanami only allowed when it was no longer worth maintaining a well-constructed lie.

“I’m in the downstairs bathroom. It’s nothing serious. Just come.” He hung up.

The scene spoke before he even said anything.

The jacket was thrown on the marble in an unusual way—disheveled, almost careless. The tap remained open, dripping rhythmically, while the sink accumulated diluted stains of blood. On the floor, crumpled, saturated papers, discarded without method. Improvised.

Nanami rarely improvised.

He crumpled another piece of paper, pressing firmly against the wound beside his torso. It was the fourth. The last on the roll. It wasn't a fatal blow—far from it. But it was persistent. Annoying. Stubborn enough to defy his tolerance.

His dress shirt remained in place, though marked. The first few buttons undone at the collar. His tie loose, disheveled. An almost absurd contrast to the posture he was still trying to maintain.

As if all this were just… a minor deviation from the routine.

The mirror reflected the image of his broad back, tense beneath the light fabric.

He noticed her presence even before the door was fully open. He always did. His gaze drifted, almost automatically, to the watch on his wrist.

“Eight minutes more than necessary,” he thought. And, after a brief internal adjustment, he concluded: “Acceptable.”

“I called you because the wound started interfering with my concentration,” he said, directly, without theatrics. His voice maintained the same calculated stability. “And because it wouldn’t be logical to insist on finishing this alone.”

Coming from him, that was more than an explanation.

He finally looked up at her, assessing—not just her presence, but her state.

“Are you alright?”

The question came simply. Unadorned. Without hesitation.

Yet, there was something there—discreet, restrained, but undeniably present—that filled the space between the words with a care that Nanami would never name aloud.