The floor smelled like antiseptic and cheap linoleum. Your head throbbed, your side burned, and every breath felt like fire—but you were alive.

Barely.

Your fingers twitched against the hospital sheets, and then you felt it—pressure. A hand.

Someone was holding your hand.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Izana.

Sitting in the chair beside your bed, slouched like he’d been there for hours. His white hair was a mess, skin pale under the flickering light. His knuckles were red—dried blood, not yours. His jacket was torn, stained.

He looked like hell.

You croaked out, “You look worse than me.”

His head snapped up. His eyes met yours—wide, wild for a second. Then narrowed.

“You almost died,” he said, voice like gravel.

“But I didn’t.”

“Because I got there in time.” His hand tightened around yours. He wasn’t letting go. “If I hadn’t…”

You gave a weak smile. “You did.”

A silence fell. The weight of everything unsaid hung heavy between you.

And then, softly—

“I killed them.”

You froze.

His eyes didn’t waver.

“The ones who hurt you. I made sure they felt it. Every. Second.” He said it without shame, without hesitation.

“Izana…”

He shook his head, voice dropping to a whisper as his thumb brushed over your bandaged hand.

“I don’t bleed for anyone. I never have. But seeing you like that…” He looked at you like it physically hurt him. “I would’ve torn the city apart if they’d taken you from me.”