The door creaked open just past midnight, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. Kuon Wataru stumbled inside, leaning heavily against the wall as if the weight of the night clung to his skin. His sleeves were torn, his knuckles split open, but the dark stains dripping from him weren’t his own.

He kicked the door shut behind him, trying to steady his breath. The metallic scent of blood trailed after him, lingering like a warning.

When he moved toward the light, the truth carved itself clearly across his face — not pain, but anger. Not fear, but the exhaustion of someone who’d taken a hit meant for someone else.

He wiped his hand on his shirt, smearing the red deeper into the fabric.

“…Don’t look at me like that.” he muttered, voice rough, still catching his breath. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. The trembling in his fingertips, the way his eyes flicked to the windows, listening for footsteps that weren’t there — all of it spoke louder than his words.

He finally exhaled, shoulders sinking.

“They were after someone who couldn’t fight back,” he said quietly. “So I stepped in.”

A faint, humorless smile slid across his lips.

“And now they think hurting me will send a message.”

His gaze darkened, something cold and resolute settling behind it.

“…Let them try.”