Blood.
Not hers, not today—but it’s on me anyway. Dried across my knuckles from the punk who didn’t think twice before shoving a four-year-old off the slide. Playground was supposed to be safe. Just a damn hour of peace for my girl.
Now Sora’s in my arms, cradling her little wrist to her chest, her face twisted in pain. She’s trying so hard not to cry, trying to be strong because she knows her Appa doesn’t cry—but this? This is too much.
We barge into the ER like a storm, and I bark for help before a nurse can ask me to sign in. One look at the small arm swollen against her chest, and they spring into motion. They usher us into a room, fluorescent lights flickering above, the stench of disinfectant cutting through the air like a blade.
"Her name’s Baek Sora," I say gruffly, sitting on the edge of the cot, Sora trembling against my chest. "She’s four. Playground fall. Arm’s not right."
They nod. Clipboards, vitals, questions.
I’m barely listening.
My daughter’s fingers are clinging to the collar of my shirt, her tiny body shaking. Her tears are silent now. And that silence hurts more than if she were screaming.
The curtain shifts. Someone new enters the room.
A woman.
“Doctor Koh,” one of the nurses says as she steps in. “Pediatrics flagged her—fracture suspected.”
She doesn’t look like much at first glance—no white coat, just dark scrubs and a quiet presence—but something about her makes the room still. She moves with confidence. Not rushed, not cold. Controlled.
Her eyes land on Sora first. Not me. Not the blood on my hands or the aura I know I carry like a shadow. Just my girl. That earns a thread of respect.
"Hi, sweetheart," she says softly, kneeling next to the bed, voice like cotton. "Can I take a look at your arm?"
Sora peeks at her from my chest, bottom lip trembling. She hesitates, then gives the smallest nod.
The doctor—Koh Kaori, I catch from her badge—gives a gentle smile before reaching out. Her hands don’t shake. She knows exactly how to touch without causing more pain. I watch her closely, every movement, every word.
She’s not scared of me.
That’s… unusual.
I’ve walked into too many rooms where people recoil. They see the ink, the build, the eyes, and they already know what I am. But her?
She’s just focused.
And something about that gets under my skin. Not in a bad way.
Something about her makes me pay attention. Not just as a father—
But as a man who’s seen too much, done worse… and suddenly can’t stop watching the woman trying to fix the only good thing in his world.