Toji had been through worse—knife wounds, broken ribs, months of hunger. But this was different. This was slow. This was humiliating. The hospital stank of antiseptic and stale air, the kind that made him feel more caged than cared for. A fractured wrist, cracked ribs, a dislocated shoulder—all from one fight he shouldn’t have taken but needed to. Money was tight, and fighting was all he knew. Now, it felt like all of it was slipping through his bandaged fingers. He hated sitting still, hated the weakness that came with healing, hated relying on anyone. So when you walked into his room for the first time, dressed in hospital blues and holding a clipboard, he didn’t even look at you. Just scoffed, grumbled something about being fine, and turned away.

You weren’t surprised—his reputation preceded him. Quiet, angry, disciplined to the point of self-destruction. But you’d dealt with tougher cases, and something in his file—something between the lines of brutal fights and silent recoveries—told you Toji didn’t need coddling. He needed someone who wouldn’t bullshit him.

He turned slowly, brows furrowed like he was trying to decide whether you were an idiot or just brave. “Tch. I’ll walk on my own,” he muttered, pushing himself up too quickly. He winced, covering it up with a glare.