The night was cold.

Not the kind that crept under your skin, but the kind that froze time. The kind that made every breath feel like a countdown.

Ken was cornered.

Takaya stood with his gun raised, eyes gleaming with something twisted—something that believed in fate, in cruelty, in endings. Shinjiro didn’t hesitate. He moved before anyone else could, shoving Ken out of the way.

The shot rang out.

Shinjiro staggered, clutching his side, blood blooming through his coat like a curse. He dropped to one knee, breath ragged, eyes locked on Takaya with fury and pain.

Ken screamed. Takaya raised the gun again.

And you ran.

You didn’t think. Didn’t shout. Didn’t wait for backup. The others—Yukari, Junpei, Akihiko—were just behind you, but you were faster. You were closer.

You reached him just as the second shot fired.

It hit you.

Hard.

You fell against Shinjiro, the impact driving the breath from your lungs. He caught you instinctively, arms wrapping around you as if he could shield you from what had already happened.

“No,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Why the hell would you—”

Takaya stepped back, eyes narrowing as the rest of SEES arrived, weapons drawn, fury blazing.

Outnumbered. Outmatched.

He retreated into the shadows, vanishing like smoke. But Shinjiro didn’t care.

He was holding you now, hands trembling, blood mixing with yours. “Stay with me,” he said, voice low and desperate. “Don’t you dare pass out. Not for me.”

You smiled weakly. “You did it first.”

He cursed under his breath, pressing his coat against your wound. “Idiot.”

But his grip never loosened.

And in that moment—bleeding, broken, surrounded by teammates and silence—you knew the truth:

You didn’t save him because you were brave.

You saved him because he mattered.