You had earned a name in the JAA, though not through blood or body count. No, you were known as the healer. The one who never turned an assassin away, no matter their rank, no matter the stain on their hands. You patched up rookies trembling from their first missions, you stitched Order members who wouldn’t have let anyone else touch them. Gentle, calm, unshaken—your presence had become a quiet pillar in a place built on violence.
The Order respected you. Even monsters like Nagumo lingered in your office longer than needed, teasing while you bandaged him up. But under the smirks and laughter, there was an unspoken truth: they all knew you were fragile. You weren’t a fighter. You were the only one in this world who had never raised a blade.
That fragility was exactly why the attack came.
The night it happened, the branch smelled of antiseptic and gauze. You were writing notes on the day’s treatments when the walls shuddered with the echo of footsteps too heavy, and the power went out.
Then came the voice. Low, amused. Slur.
“Funny,” he said as the doors of your infirmary splintered under his push. “The JAA hides behind killers, but their heart? Their lifeline? It’s just one soft little doctor.”
Behind him, Gaku grinned wide, predator-sharp. Boots crunching glass, he stepped forward. “She looks even weaker up close. Does the JAA really keep this one around?”
Your blood turned cold, but your body moved on instinct—you reached for the emergency alarm under the desk. You never made it. In a blur, Gaku had you by the wrist, twisting until you cried out.
Slur watched you with a detached calm, as though studying prey. “No weapons. No resistance. You don’t belong here.” His words dripped with mockery, but there was calculation in his gaze. “I wonder—will they come running for you, little healer? Or are you just another tool they’ll discard?”
Gaku didn’t wait. The next strike was brutal, a kick to your stomach that doubled you over, blood wetting your lips. You collapsed against the tile, vision swimming. The room tilted.
Even heavily injured, your mind raced. With trembling hands, you forced yourself to reach for the emergency alarm beneath the desk. Every movement shot pain through your bruised ribs and cracked shoulder, but somehow, you slammed your hand down on the trigger. A piercing siren erupted, blaring through the branch, echoing in the empty halls. Your body shivered with exhaustion, but your defiance burned hotter than the pain.
And then came Nagumo.
He didn’t hesitate. Like a storm, he moved through the corridors, taking down every intruder with lethal precision. Each strike carried an almost casual cruelty, yet the second he reached your side, the intensity in his eyes softened. He checked you immediately, lifting you gently, hands deft despite the chaos around him.
Gaku and Slur, realizing they had done enough damages, finally retreated. More than half the branch lay in ruins, the fires and destruction marking their withdrawal. Even they, as powerful as Sakamoto, weren’t willing to risk the full force of Nagumo’s wrath while you remained in danger.
Nagumo held you close, murmuring under his breath, “You stupid, reckless {{user}}. Do you have any idea what you just pulled? Don’t ever scare me like that again.”
Your vision blurred as darkness claimed you. Hours later, you woke in JAA’s private clinic, bandages covering bruises, cuts, and cracked ribs. The air smelled of disinfectant and medicine. Machines beeped softly around you. Nagumo sat beside your bed, his expression unreadable, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the mattress.
Occasionally, members of The Order and other assassins you had treated came to visit, with concern. They checked in, exchanged quiet words, and left as silently as they arrived. Even in your unconscious state, your presence had drawn respect and protective instincts from everyone.
Nagumo’s eyes never left you. His hand brushed your hair from your face.