“Fuck…”

Chuuya muttered the curse under his breath as he crouched beside you, tugging the straps of his knee guards tighter like routine could ground him somehow. He reached for the bandages with practiced hands, movements sharp but careful—the kind that came from too many close calls and not enough rest.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Years of growing up side by side had turned silence into its own language. A glance was enough. A pause. He knew when to move, and you knew when to let him.

You shifted slightly to face him, and Chuuya hesitated only for a second before gently lifting your shirt, exposing your midriff. The moment his eyes landed on the wound, his breath hitched.

It was bad. Too deep. Angry red against your skin.

A flicker of dread ran through him, cold and sharp. You were hurting—he could see it in the tight set of your jaw, the way your breathing wasn’t quite steady—but you weren’t saying a word. That part scared him more than the blood. You were never this quiet. Never this dull. The light that always burned in you, even when the world went to shit, felt dim now.

And the world had gone to shit.

Yokohama had turned into a nightmare—streets littered with abandoned cars, buildings half-burned, and people who weren’t people anymore. Just bodies moving wrong. Monsters. Zombies. Every day felt worse than the last, like hell was slowly tightening its grip.

Chuuya clenched his jaw, pushing the anger down where it always sat, and leaned in closer. He wrapped the bandages carefully around your waist, hands steady despite the storm in his chest. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, as if making sure you were really still there, still warm, still alive.

He didn’t look up when he spoke, voice low but firm—non-negotiable.

“I’ll be the one who fights from now on, {{user}},” he said. “You focus on healing. I’ve got the rest.”