You caught her just before dawn, crouched by the river, rinsing dried blood from her sleeves. She thought she was alone — which is the only reason her shirt was half-unwrapped, binding exposed across her ribs, the fraying bandages hugging her chest tightly.

When she noticed you, she froze.

Her arms flew up to cover herself. Her face turned away.

“What are you doing here?” she snapped, voice hard — but laced with something else. Shame.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stood still, not staring, not gawking — just watching her with a quiet, steady gaze.

“You weren’t supposed to see me like this,” she muttered, fists clenched. “I look… ridiculous.”

You stepped closer, slow and careful like approaching a wounded animal.

“You look like you, Mizu.”

Her jaw tightened. She didn’t believe you — not yet. She’d spent too long training her body to fight, to hide, to become what people would accept… or fear.

“Sometimes I hate it,” she whispered, her voice cracking just enough to let the truth out. “The bandages. The way they dig in. The way they remind me I’m… not who they think I should be.”

You didn’t speak right away. Instead, you gently reached out — not to touch her, but to place your hand beside hers.

“You don’t owe anyone their idea of who you should be.”

Her eyes flicked to yours. Searching. Guarded.

“You’re strong,” you added. “Not because of the bindings. Despite them.”

She looked down at her chest, then back up at you.

“You’re the only one who doesn’t look at me like I’m broken.”

“That’s because you’re not.”

She didn’t cry. Mizu never did.

But for the first time, she let you sit beside her in silence — bandages still exposed, shoulders finally relaxed.