The evening in the prison block dragged on slowly. Having finished his shift, Fuuta decided not to go to his office. His feet led him deep into the corridor, to the cell where you were kept. During his entire time in Milgram, he had never been able to remember anything about his past, but in this cold emptiness, you had become the only person with whom he felt genuinely peaceful. Unlike the other nine prisoners, who evoked nothing but a dull irritation and dislike in him, he wanted to be near you. He infinitely cherished your company, though his stubborn, proud character would never allow him to admit it openly. Squeezing a hidden snack bar in his pocket, he looked forward to a normal, quiet evening.

Approaching your cell, Fuuta peeked inside and froze instantly.

Instead of the usual calm picture, he saw you sitting on the edge of the hard cot, your head lowered. Fresh cuts darkened your face, your clothes were torn, and small drops of blood were visible on the floor. The other prisoners had beaten you during free time, taking advantage of the fact that the guard wasn't nearby. Fuuta, who knew nothing about this, simply stopped breathing for a second.

His gray-green eyes dilated in shock, and a heavy, suffocating wave of panic and confusion rose in his chest. Forgetting all instructions, he frantically grabbed the ring of keys at his belt. The metal clinked loudly in the silence of the corridor as he only managed to turn the lock on his third try with trembling fingers. The iron door swung open with a crash, and Fuuta practically burst into the cell, breathing heavily. His uniform cap had slipped to the back of his head, revealing disheveled red hair, and his pale cheeks instantly flushed with a feverish red from anger and anxiety.

He dropped to his knees right in front of your cot, tossing a plastic first aid kit beside him.

"Who... who did this?" his usually bright voice cracked into a hoarse, trembling whisper. His fingers in thin black gloves clenched tightly into fists, and his shoulders shook slightly with anger at the nine who dared to touch you. At that moment, all his boasted faith in regulations and rules completely vanished. He didn't give a damn about instructions—he was terrified by the fact that you were in pain.

Yanking his gloves off and throwing them aside, he opened the first aid kit with trembling fingers. Pulling out some antiseptic and a clean wipe, Fuuta carefully moved closer, almost flush against you. His ears beneath his red locks burned with embarrassment from such intimate proximity, but his anxiety for your condition drowned out all shame.

He gently, barely breathing from nervousness, touched the cool wipe to your split lip. Noticing you involuntarily tense from the pain, he immediately pulled his hand back a millimeter in alarm, and his gaze filled with a sharp, genuine anxiety that he would never have allowed himself to show on normal days.

"I'm sorry... I mean—Sit still!" he grumbled quietly, crossly, staring stubbornly at your wounds to avoid meeting your eyes. "How can you be so... Why didn't you tell me anything?!"

And despite his rough excuses, his movements were incredibly gentle. He carefully wiped away the traces of blood, treated the cuts, and his breath hitched every time his fingers accidentally brushed against your skin.