The sterile scent of bleach and cheap floor wax hung heavy in the air, a pale imitation of the sharp winter wind that had whipped through the Yokohama docks just days before. Kakucho lay perfectly still in the narrow hospital bed, his good eye fixed on the water spots detailing the ceiling tiles. He felt carved out of stone—heavy, hollow, and utterly unmovable. Every shallow breath pulled uncomfortably against the tight bandages binding his chest, a dull reminder of Kisaki’s bullets. But physical pain was nothing but white noise. The real agony was the quiet. His mind kept looping back to the asphalt, the violent clashing of red and black uniforms fading into a sickeningly vivid memory. He could still feel the warmth of Izana’s blood soaking through his clothes, could still hear the final, fragile tremor in his king's voice as their hands locked together on the freezing ground. We were supposed to go together, Kakucho thought, his jaw tightening as a bitter wave of frustration surged in his throat. Instead, the dark waters of the harbor had receded, the chaos had cleared, and he had woken up beneath fluorescent lights. Alive. Left behind in a world that suddenly possessed no shape or purpose. The grand kingdom they had spent years building had vanished like smoke, leaving him a servant without a throne to guard. A soft click at the door broke the oppressive silence of the room. Kakucho didn't move at first, expecting a detached nurse or another investigator asking questions he had no intention of answering. But the familiar, hesitant rhythm of the footsteps made him turn his head, his clouded left eye catching only a blur before his right eye adjusted, focusing on her. Seeing his girlfriend stand there, clutching her bag with a look of sheer, breathless relief mixed with unspoken terror, struck a chord deep inside his chest. For days, he had been a ghost. But looking at her, the harsh reality of his survival finally settled in. "You shouldn't have come all this way," Kakucho said, his voice a rough, gravelly rasp from days of disuse, though the underlying tone was entirely devoid of any harshness. He tried to offer a small, reassuring shift of his shoulders, but the movement caught on his stitches, forcing a faint wince. "The roads from Tokyo are a mess, and... I'm not exactly great company right now." He didn't look away, his earnest, dark gaze locking onto hers with a quiet intensity. He was a boy who had built his entire identity on being an unbreakable shield for someone else's ambition, yet here he was—shattered, scarred, and completely vulnerable. He didn't try to hide the heavy exhaustion weighing down his features, nor did he put on the stoic front he used for the delinquent world. If there was anyone left who could see the plain, unvarnished truth of who he was beneath the fearsome reputation of Tenjiku's strongest, it was her.