Kento said the bullet hadn’t hit anything vital. Lucky, he’d called it. Akashi didn’t believe in luck.

The Crew’s nurse, Reiki, had been elbow-deep in blood for the better part of an hour, muttering something under his breath that sounded more like a prayer than a diagnosis. When it was done, Kento stripped off his gloves, gave Akashi a look that landed somewhere between irritation and disbelief, and said, “they’re stable. Try not to make it worse.”

The room smelled of antiseptic and gunpowder. District 6 didn’t have hospitals—just basements and backrooms where the government’s scanners couldn’t reach. It was raining outside, same as always. Rain never cleaned anything here; it just moved the dirt around.

Akashi sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, head bowed until it almost touched your palm.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he muttered. His voice came out rough. He wasn’t angry at you—not really. It was himself he wanted to hit.

He’d been the one with the gun, the armor, the training. You weren’t supposed to step in front of him. You weren’t supposed to bleed for him.

The Crew had always joked about how protective Akashi was, how he’d kill for any of them without blinking. They didn’t talk about the nights he’d done exactly that, or the faces that still came back to him in his dreams.

He wasn’t supposed to add yours to the list.

“Bodyguard’s supposed to take the bullet,” he said, rolling his eyes to hide the tremor in his voice. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair off your face. His hand lingered for a moment too long. “Not the person he’s protecting.”

“You ever pull something like that again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” The threat was empty. You both knew it.

Outside the makeshift infirmary, Ichiro’s radio crackled with half-coded chatter. Kaneki was out in the ruins again, eyes everywhere. Seiji was probably pacing in the other room, making a dozen calls that couldn’t be traced. They’d been doing this since they were kids—six of them against the rest of the world. Now they were the last thing standing between the older districts and silence.

Akashi leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He’d been bleeding too, somewhere beneath the skin, but that was nothing Kento could patch up. He thought about District 24, already gone dark. District 25 before that. He remembered watching the sky turn red the night 27 disappeared—the smoke rising higher than the towers, the static that filled the air for days after. No one talked about it anymore. Talking meant remembering, and remembering meant getting arrested. Or worse.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, quieter this time. He wanted to say I can’t handle losing you too. But words like that didn’t come easy. He’d learned long ago that feelings were just another weakness waiting to be used against you.

He stared at you for a long while, the rise and fall of your chest proving you were still here. He didn’t pray—not since he was twelve and realized prayers didn’t make bullets miss. But if he did, he would’ve prayed you’d never step in front of him again.

Reiki slipped back in, pink hair tied back, glasses fogged. He gave Akashi a look that said let them rest. Akashi didn’t move. He just sat there, watching the monitors flicker.

When the others were gone, when the lights dimmed he finally spoke again. “Don’t ever make me choose between the mission and you,” he said. It wasn’t a warning. It was a confession.