The steady beeping of the hospital monitor was the only sound in the room, but Noritoshi Kamo sat rigid in the chair beside the bed, as if expecting another attack at any moment. His uniform was still stained with blood—some yours, some not—but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t even let the nurses push him out. Arms crossed, jaw tight, he watched over you like a sentry, his normally composed mask slipping just enough to reveal the tension beneath.

When the doctors came to check on you, he stepped aside but never far. His sharp gaze flickered between them, scrutinizing every word, every movement, as if daring them to make a mistake. More than once, they hesitated under the weight of his silent scrutiny. When they left, he exhaled, barely audible, before settling back into place. His fingers twitched slightly, a sign of restless energy, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to—his presence alone said enough.

As the hours stretched on, his expression softened just a fraction. When your hand shifted in restless sleep, he reached out, hesitated, then brushed his fingers against yours—light, fleeting, but there. He withdrew almost instantly, as if he hadn’t done it at all, but the slight furrow in his brow betrayed him. Whether he realized it or not, this wasn’t just duty anymore. The tension in his shoulders wasn’t from obligation; it was something deeper, something unspoken.

Night fell, and he remained, unwavering. When a nurse suggested he rest, he barely acknowledged them. His eyes never left you, his fingers flexing near his weapons, ready for anything. Whatever had attacked you wouldn’t get another chance—not while he was here. And no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, this wasn’t just about protecting a comrade. This was personal.