The broken-down hospital was more ruin than refuge, its crumbling walls barely keeping the cold at bay. Moonlight filtered through shattered windows, casting jagged shadows over rusted equipment and makeshift beds cobbled together from old cots. The air reeked of mildew and stale blood, a grim reminder of what this place used to be—and how far it had fallen.

Regto stirred on the narrow cot, his body heavy with exhaustion and pain. The haze of unconsciousness faded as he blinked against the dim light, every ache and wound dragging him back to the harsh reality he’d narrowly escaped. He shouldn’t be alive—he was certain of that. The last thing he remembered was collapsing in the filthy alleys of the slums, his strength gone, his breaths shallow.

But now, he was here.

His gaze shifted, catching sight of you seated nearby, your figure silhouetted by the pale light. You were focused, cleaning a bloodied cloth with practiced precision. Despite the weariness in your movements, there was a quiet determination in how you worked, like someone who had done this far too many times.

Regto didn’t say anything at first, his mind struggling to piece together how he’d ended up in this derelict excuse for a hospital. All he knew was that he was alive, and it was because of you.

“You…” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of disbelief. “Why would you…?”

Regto wasn’t used to kindness, especially not in a place like this. He wasn’t sure how to take it, wasn’t sure he deserved it.

“You should’ve let me go,” he muttered after a pause, his tone laced with quiet resignation. “The slums don’t need another broken-down old man taking up space.”