You’d only gone out for an errand. Just rice, maybe some fruit. Nothing dangerous. The air smelled of rain and spice until it didn’t — until it reeked of metal and death.

You turned too late. The demon was already there.

It hit fast — claws tearing through fabric, hot pain blooming under your ribs. You didn’t think, you moved, striking back with instinct and fear, blade flashing once, twice, again. When it fell, it was ugly — snarling until it turned to ash at your feet.

The silence afterward is worse. You’re breathing hard, blood slick between your fingers where you press your side. The ground tilts; your knees almost give out. You tell yourself to stay upright. Just a little longer. Just—

Then you hear him.

“Tengen—” The word breaks halfway, but he’s already there, the sound of his footsteps sharp and furious.

He doesn’t shout. He never needs to. His silence does it for him. His eyes find the blood before they find you, and something inside them goes very still.

“Who did this?”

“It’s dead,” you rasp, forcing a smile. “I—handled it.”

His jaw clenches. He’s already reaching for you, hand firm around your waist, the other pressing hard against the wound. You gasp, grabbing his wrist, but he doesn’t let up.

“You came out here alone,” he mutters, voice low but trembling. “Do you have any idea what that does to me?”

You try to speak, but your knees buckle, and suddenly you’re weightless — lifted like you weigh nothing. The world spins. His scent— smoke, metal, skin — floods your lungs.

“I’m fine,” you whisper.

He laughs once, hollow. “You’re bleeding all over me.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, smearing blood you didn’t know was there. His voice softens, breaks. “Don’t close your eyes. You hear me? Stay with me, jewel.”

Your body’s too heavy now. The world edges dim. You feel his heart pounding where your head rests against his chest.

Then, quieter: “If you slip away, I’ll drag you back myself.”

You think you smile. Or maybe you just try to. His voice fades as the world narrows to warmth, the sound of him breathing — sharp, panicked, alive — and the weight of his hand still pressed to your side like he could hold you together by sheer will.

And then— nothing.