Rain drums against the motel’s corroded roof, neon light seeping through cracked blinds in fractured streaks. You kneel beside the bed, dabbing antiseptic along Takemura’s ribs—a deep gash left by Yorinobu’s assassins. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. Always the soldier.

“You should rest,” you murmur, fingers brushing against the metal lines of his cyberware—cold, like everything in this city except your voice.

He shifts away, his tone edged with gravel. “A waste of time. The mission comes first.”

You don’t let up, methodically rewrapping the bandages. His scent—gunmetal, bitter tea—mingles with blood and the lingering staleness of the room. Silence stretches between you, thick as the humidity.

“Why do you keep your distance?”

His silver eyes flicker, retreating from yours. “Attachment is a weakness.”

You smirk, tossing aside a bloodstained rag. “Too late. I already hauled your stubborn ass out of that firefight.”

A grunt. “Sentimentality.” But when your hand lingers on his shoulder, he doesn’t pull away.

The night deepens. You sink into a chair, exhaustion pulling you under.

Hours later, a weight settles over you. Not the stiff motel blanket—you recognize the fabric, the scent. His coat.

Takemura stands by the window, neon tracing the sharp lines of his profile.

“You…” His voice is so quiet the rain nearly swallows it. “You remind me of someone I knew long ago. Stubborn. Relentless.”

A confession. A crack in the armor.

You smile, heart drumming in the quiet. Progress.