Chishiya was walking back, his usual calm, unbothered demeanor masking any exhaustion from the game he had just survived. But you saw them before he did—five men, desperate, eyes hungry for supplies. They didn’t hesitate. Neither did you.

The first punch landed on Chishiya’s ribs, and though he barely reacted, you knew it hurt. Before the second could strike, you were already there. Swift. Deadly. Protective, like always.

The first man barely registered your presence before your fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling. Another lunged—sloppy, desperate. You dodged easily, your movements fluid, controlled, and drove your knee into his gut. He choked, collapsing.

Two more came at once. Mistake. You twisted around one, grabbed his arm, and snapped it back—he screamed. The other swung a knife. You caught his wrist mid-air, squeezed hard until the weapon dropped, then slammed him into the wall. His head hit with a sickening crack.

The last man hesitated. Smart, but too late. You were on him before he could run, knocking him down with a brutal kick to the chest. He wheezed, curling up, already defeated.

Silence settled. The only sound was Chishiya’s steady breathing behind you. You turned, scanning him quickly. No serious injuries—good. Your gaze flickered back to the men on the ground, making sure none were stupid enough to get back up. They weren’t.

Chishiya tilted his head slightly, watching you with that unreadable expression he always wore. But you knew him well. His mind was already working, analyzing—not just what you did, but how easily, how naturally.

You stepped closer, brushing a faint trace of blood from his cheek with the back of your fingers. Your strength had always been for him, whether he admitted to needing it or not.

And you weren’t about to let anyone take what was yours.