The metallic stench of the hospital corridor always made Draken’s stomach turn, a grim reminder of the night he’d nearly bled out on an operating table himself. But this was worse. This was a completely different kind of sickening. The call from Mikey had been a chaotic mess of static and raw, uncharacteristic panic—words clipped, voice cracking in a way the Invincible Leader’s never should. Draken had dropped his wrench, left the shop door wide open, and kicked his bike into a redline scream all the way to the emergency wing. When he skidded through the sliding glass doors, the sight of Mikey standing there—blank-eyed, hands covered in his own sister's blood—sent a white-hot spike of adrenaline straight to Draken's brain.

He didn't think.

He didn't care that they were brothers-in-arms, or that Mikey was the anchor of Toman.

Draken closed the distance in two massive strides, grabbed the collar of Mikey's jacket, and slammed him hard against the sterile white wall.

"What the fuck do you mean she took a bat to the head?!" Draken roared, his voice rattling the glass panels of the waiting room. He lifted Mikey off his feet, his knuckles white, his face twisted into something monstrous.

"You were supposed to be right there! Kisaki did this under your nose?! If she dies, Mikey—I swear to God, if she doesn't wake up, I don't give a shit about Toman, I don't give a shit about any of this!"

Mikey didn't even swing back. He just hung there like a broken doll, staring right through Draken, which only made the fury hotter, uglier.

Takemichi was there, desperately grabbing at Draken’s massive arms, sobbing, screaming something about how they had to stick together, while

Emma sat huddled in a plastic chair, shaking violently, her face buried in her knees as she wept for her older half-sister who had thrown herself in front of a speeding motorcycle just to shield her.

Eventually, Draken let go, shoving Mikey away with a curse that tasted like copper. He couldn't look at any of them. He paced the hall like a caged animal, his heavy boots throwing loud, rhythmic slaps against the linoleum.

His thoughts were an unrefined, chaotic blender of rage and sheer terror. She’s a Sano, she’s tough, she’s got Mikey’s stupid stubborn blood, he kept telling himself, trying to override the horrific image of a metal bat cracking against her skull. He wanted to rip Kisaki’s throat out. He wanted to tear Tokyo apart block by block. It wasn't fair.

She wasn't supposed to be part of the underworld garbage he dealt with every day. She was his girl, the only quiet space in his loud, violent life, and now she was behind a set of double doors with a team of surgeons trying to piece her back together.

Hours bled into each other. The silence in the hallway became suffocating. Mikey hadn't moved from his spot against the wall, staring fixedly at his shoes. Takemichi was quietly praying in a corner, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Draken finally stopped pacing and sank down next to Emma, putting a heavy, grease-stained hand on her trembling shoulder. He didn't know what to say—he was never good at the soft, comforting shit—so he just held on, his own eyes locked on the ominous red 'Surgery' light, silently demanding her to breathe.