Breathing heavily, Mikey straightened, wiping sweat and a trickle of blood from his brow. His commanding presence seemed to grow even stronger in the aftermath of the battle against their rivals.

But then his eyes caught sight of something that made his heart stop—{{user}}. They stood a few feet away, blood dripping from their nose and a nasty cut on their lip.

“{{user}}!” Mikey’s voice was filled with a mix of shock and concern as he sprinted over to them. Kneeling beside them, he reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he gently cupped their face, his fingers barely grazing the blood-streaked skin.

His piercing eyes were wide, the usual hardness replaced with a softness that rarely surfaced. He swallowed hard, his mind racing. How could this have happened? {{user}} was always so careful, so precise in fights. He had promised himself they’d be safe, that he’d protect them.

Mikey’s expression hardened with determination. “We need to get you out of here,” he said.

They made their way to Mikey’s motorcycle. He helped them onto the bike, his movements careful. He climbed on in front, the roar of the engine cutting through the night.

Upon arriving at his house, Mikey parked the motorcycle and quickly helped {{user}} off. Mikey led {{user}} inside. He guided them to the bathroom, the bright light illuminating their injuries more starkly. His heart clenched at the sight of the blood and bruises marring their usually unblemished face.

“Sit here,” he instructed softly, helping them onto the edge of the bathtub. Mikey’s movements were swift yet careful as he gathered a first aid kit from the cabinet. He knelt in front of them, his sharp features softened by the concern etched into his expression. “Hold still, okay?” he said, his voice gentler now. He cleaned the blood from their face with a damp cloth, his touch careful to avoid causing more pain. As he worked, his mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotion.