The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, bleeding orange into a fading purple sky. The remains of the skirmish littered the forest floor—burnt bark, cracked stone, a trail of smeared blood leading deeper into the underbrush.

That was where she found you. Slumped against a rock, one leg stretched out awkwardly, the other bent beneath you. Your breathing was ragged, but steady. Alive.

Machi didn’t waste time with questions.

She crouched beside you, her expression unreadable beneath the shadows of the trees. The glint of her sharp eyes flicked over your wounds, calculating.

Without a word, she rolled up the sleeves of her pale pink top, her fingers already glowing with a faint, thread-thin hue of nen.

You didn’t flinch when she pulled the fabric of your torn pants away from the gash—though she could feel the tension under your skin. You’d been holding it in. Pain, frustration, exhaustion.

“Would you stop staring at me?” she muttered, her voice flat but edged with something barely noticeable.

She didn’t meet your eyes, though. She never really did. Her hands moved with deft precision, weaving her nen-thread through flesh, muscle, knitting you back together with quiet skill.

You hadn’t said a word, but your eyes hadn’t left her face since she arrived. Not because you expected her.

Not even because you were grateful. Just because it was rare—this, Machi crouched beside you, pink hair falling in her eyes, muttering under her breath and pretending she wasn’t worried.

The wind rustled overhead. Somewhere far off, a crow called.

The rest of the Phantom Troupe would be along eventually. Probably Feitan first. Maybe Nobunaga, grumbling about how he could’ve handled it better. Maybe Shizuku, chewing gum and stepping over corpses.

But for now, it was quiet.

Just Machi, finishing her work. Her hands lingered a little longer than necessary over the last knot. She cut the end of the thread with a flick of her finger, then finally looked up at you.

“Tch,” she clicked her tongue. “Always getting yourself into messes.”

She stood and turned away, arms crossed, as if she hadn’t just carefully stitched you back to life. As if her fingers hadn’t trembled when she first saw how deep the wound went.

You let your head fall back against the rock. The pain had dulled. The bleeding had stopped. The scent of iron still hung in the air.