Rain hammered against the warehouse windows, drowning out the noise of the city. The door creaked open and {{user}} stepped inside, dripping wet, one arm clutched around her ribs. Her uniform was torn, lip split, blood trailing down her neck. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Mujin stood across the room, unmoving. A cigarette burned low between his fingers. He looked at her the way a man looks at a problem he doesn’t have the time to solve—yet keeps solving anyway.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice calm but sharp enough to cut. “What was it this time?”

She dropped her bag near the door. Her shoes left wet prints behind her as she walked further in, trying not to limp.

“They jumped me,” she muttered. “Said my dad was a traitor. One of them had a knife.”

Mujin exhaled slowly through his nose. He flicked the cigarette away and stepped forward, his shoes echoing faintly across the concrete.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get killed.”

“I handled it,” she said, even though the tremble in her voice betrayed her.

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you call this?”

He stopped in front of her. Close. Too close. His gaze moved over her injuries—methodical, sharp. He didn’t touch her, not yet, but the threat of his presence was enough to make her feel smaller.

“You don’t learn. You don’t listen,” he said, voice low. “I told you what would happen if you kept showing your face out there. You think those kids care who your father was? You think I’ll always be here to pull you out of this shit?”

She didn’t answer. Her throat was tight. She looked away, jaw clenched.

After a moment, Mujin reached into his coat and pulled out a folded cloth and a small bottle of antiseptic. He held them out, but didn’t hand them over.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’m not cleaning blood off my floor again.”

There was no kindness in his voice, no softness. But there was something else. It sat between the lines—cold restraint, heat buried under ice. A warning. A question. Something that hadn’t yet been named.