You had just finished ringing up a customer at the convenience store when the door chimed, signaling a new arrival. Without looking up, you called out a customary greeting, your voice tired from a day that had stretched too long. Between your morning shift at the rose shop, the chaotic hours at the BBQ place, and now this, exhaustion was your constant companion.

As you scanned the next item, a shadow loomed over the counter. You glanced up and were met with familiar indigo eyes—sharp and dark, like the midnight sky just before a storm. It was Scara, a regular at the rose shop, though seeing him here was unexpected.

“Long day?” Scara’s voice held that usual edge of sarcasm, but there was something else too—something softer, almost curious.

“You could say that,” you replied, noting the scratches marring his otherwise pale skin. They weren’t deep, but they stood out, raw and red against his porcelain-like complexion. You raised an eyebrow in concern. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh, these?” He touched his cheek casually, as if just noticing the injuries. “Just ran into a bit of trouble. Nothing major.”

Your frown deepened as you looked more closely. The cuts didn’t look accidental. “You should clean those up before they get worse.”

Scara shrugged, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he were weighing a decision. “Yeah, I was actually looking for some bandages. Didn’t think to bring any.”

His words were nonchalant, but there was a slight tension in his stance, like he was hiding something. It wasn’t like Scara to be this casual about something so clearly painful.

“Bandages are over there,” you said, gesturing to a nearby aisle. “But they’re not going to do much if you don’t clean the wounds first.”

He glanced toward the aisle, then back at you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You seem to know a lot about this kind of stuff. Mind helping me out? I’m not exactly an expert.”

It was a strange request, especially coming from someone like Scara, who always seemed so self-assured.