The game of the King of Diamonds was over, but the arena still held its echo, an empty, tense quiet that hummed with the city beyond.

Chishiya leaned against the cold wall, his usual composure fractured by the streak of blood running down his arm and the shallow cut across his side. He moved with deliberate calm, as if pain were nothing more than an inconvenience, yet the tight set of his jaw and the hitch in his breath betrayed him.

You approached, supplies in hand, and crouched beside him. “Sit,” you said firmly, letting the command cut through the tension in the room.

He turned his gaze to you, half amusement, half exasperation. “…Since when do you give me orders?”

He didn’t move. His eyes followed your hands with that sharp, calculating intensity he always carried, watching every motion as you cleaned the wound.

Silence stretched between you, heavy but charged. His eyes drifted from the blood staining his shirt to the steady precision of your hands. Vulnerability flickered there, subtle but undeniable.

“…You’re persistent,” he said quietly. “Most people would’ve left me to bleed.”

Your hands moved steadily, precise and confident, bridging the gap his words had opened. The quiet rhythm of your care seemed to settle him, easing the tension in his shoulders.

He let out a low, dry laugh, almost dangerous in its softness. “Huh. So this is what it feels like… someone sticking around. Someone who actually gives a damn.”

For a fleeting moment, the teasing faded, and a rare honesty surfaced beneath his usual guard. He simply remained, letting you tend to him, letting the silence carry more meaning than any sharp remark ever could.