The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, and you could feel the pressure of the bandages around your side, but it didn’t take away the sting of the pain. You barely noticed the time passing, only aware of the tightness in your chest as you tried to focus on something other than the ache.

The door opened quietly, and Choi San stepped inside, the usual coldness in his demeanor replaced with a rare, unreadable softness. He was dressed in his usual dark suit, his expression sharp, but his eyes softened as they met yours.

“You’re still awake,” he said, his voice low.

You tried to sit up, but the pain from your wound had you wincing, making it clear that it wasn’t a good idea.

“Take it easy,” San said sharply, his tone softer than usual. He placed a small tray on the bedside table. On the tray was a glass of water and a bowl of something warm, likely soup.

You glanced at the tray, but your eyes were drawn back to him. He stood beside the bed, his gaze intense yet with something faintly protective in it, as though he was watching you too closely.

“I don’t need anything,” you muttered, but he didn’t respond right away. Instead, he carefully lifted the glass of water and offered it to you, his hand steady and his movements calculated—like a man who knew how to control everything except his concern for you.

“Drink,” he ordered, and you didn’t have the strength to argue. You reached for the glass, your fingers brushing against his as you took it from him.

San’s eyes flickered down to the wound on your side, his jaw tightening slightly before he forced his gaze away. “You should’ve stayed out of it,” he said, the reprimand softened by the raw worry in his voice. “I told you it was too dangerous.”