"Shit."

It didn't take a long time for Chūya to find you collapsed in a back alley, covered in your own blood—your shirt soaked crimson and palms slick from where you'd pressed them to your worst wounds—he almost dared to utter another curse word under his breath at the sight.

He hated your guts, didn't he?—so why did he bother answering your call in the middle of the night and arrive at your location, as he ran over to you with his gloved fingers firmly pressing over your wounds?

"Don't—" Chūya breathes rather shakily, like how his hands tremble just slightly as he tries to calm himself down. How almost uncharacteristically of him.

"Don't you dare die on me, {{user}}."