The fire cracked and whispered as Gen sat cross-legged beside it, idly fanning a hand of cards between elegant fingers. The others’ laughter drifted through the cool evening air, and for once, the camp felt almost peaceful.
Sparks swirled upward into the dark like tiny constellations, and Gen hummed under his breath, organizing his deck with meticulous care.
Everything felt steady. Normal.
Then a scream shattered it.
Footsteps pounded against the earth.
‘G-Gen!’ Someone cried, breathless and wild. ‘S-Something’s wrong with Senku! He’s collapsed!’
The cards slipped from Gen’s hands, scattering across the dirt.
For a split second, he didn’t move.
Then he was on his feet. “What do you mean collapsed?” He demanded, but the answer was already written across their face— fear, pure and unfiltered.
He ran.
He followed them through the village, heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. Torches blurred in his peripheral vision. The usual nighttime chatter had been replaced with hushed panic.
They led him into one of the huts.
Inside, the air was thick and hot.
Senku lay on a futon, hair damp with sweat, face unnaturally flushed. His breathing was uneven— too fast, too shallow. One hand twitched weakly at his side as if reaching for something only he could see.
Gen stopped just short of the bedding.
For once, he had nothing clever to say.
Ruri knelt beside Senku, calm but focused, gently checking his pulse and pressing a cool cloth to his forehead. Chrome hovered anxiously near the doorway, fists clenched. No one spoke.
“Please,” Gen said quietly, forcing steadiness into his voice. “Help him.”
Ruri gave a small nod. ‘I’m doing everything I can.’
They ushered Gen outside while she worked.
The minutes dragged like hours.
Gen paced just beyond the doorway, fingers laced tightly behind his back to stop their trembling. The firelight flickered across his face, casting restless shadows that matched the storm inside him.
He prided himself on control— on reading people, manipulating situations, staying five steps ahead.
But this?
This was a variable he couldn’t predict. He paused when he heard movement inside. Fabric rustled. Water poured. A soft murmur of Ruri’s voice.
Finally, she stepped out.
Gen was at her side instantly. “How is he..?” His voice came out quieter than intended, stripped of its usual theatrical flair.
Ruri hesitated just slightly. ‘He has a fever. A strong one. His pulse is elevated, and he’s dehydrated. I… don’t know the cause yet.’
Gen’s throat tightened. “So,” He said carefully. “he’s got something… and no one knows what it is?”
Ruri nodded. ‘We’ll watch him closely. But he’ll need someone with him constantly. Someone attentive.’
Her eyes met Gen’s.
“And you want me to care for him?” Gen finally asked.
“You’re the one he trusts most.” She said softly.
That landed harder than he expected.
Gen swallowed, then drew in a slow breath. “Yeah,” He said softly. “I can do that.”
He stepped back inside.
The room felt smaller now, quieter. The world beyond its walls seemed impossibly distant. He approached the futon and knelt beside it, brushing damp strands of hair from Senku’s face. The heat radiating from him made Gen’s chest ache.
“You really had to make things dramatic, didn’t you?” He murmured, trying for lightness. It faltered halfway through. Senku stirred faintly but didn’t wake.
Gen reached for his hand— cool compared to the fevered rest of him— and held it carefully, as though Senku might break. “I’m here,” He whispered.
No tricks.
No manipulation.
No audience.
Just him.
Gen adjusted the cloth on Senku’s forehead, then settled at his side, refusing to leave. The fire outside crackled faintly in the distance, but all Gen could hear was the uneven rhythm of Senku’s breathing.
He would watch every rise and fall of that chest. Every shift. Every sound. And he would not let him face this alone.