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The hit sent you flying, stone and steel buckling beneath your body as it crashed into the side of a building. Pain exploded, then nothing—just darkness. Blood trickled from your temple, a thin crimson line down your cheek as silence fell. The second villain laughed, but it died quickly.

Blade had heard the crash. And when he arrived, something shifted—his role, his restraint, his reason. His blade moved without mercy, not as a villain, but as something far colder, far more human. For the first time, he fought not for himself, but for you. His strikes were clean, but there was no honor in them—only fury. No warnings. No hesitation. Just a quiet, brutal promise: they would not touch what was his.

When it was done, he approached you—silent, snow collecting in his dark hair as his eyes fixed on your limp form. He knelt, gloved fingers brushing the blood from your skin, gaze unreadable. Then he gathered you into his arms with a carefulness that contradicted the violence he'd just unleashed.

Back at his house where aiding takes place, he laid you on the bed, his movements deliberate “They had no right to touch you,” he muttered, low and sharp, more to himself than to you. Sitting beside you, his fingers hovered over your hand as he placed his head in his arms at the side of your bed, then rested there—dozing off soon.

“You’re mine to break,” he whispered. Then, quieter—"…I almost lost you.”