Makoto sits on the edge of a low table, coat shrugged off, one arm braced on his knee as he presses a cloth to his side. Blood seeps through his fingers, dark against pale skin.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, though the tension in his jaw betrays him. He doesn’t meet your gaze as you gather supplies; thread, needle, the sharp sting of antiseptic. When you approach, he exhales, slow and measured. He knows he should be used to this by now, the patchwork life that his job brings with him, but somehow it never gets easier when you’re the one seeing it.

His shirt comes off with a reluctant tug. Beneath, strips of white bandage cross his chest, tight and neat, the binding pressed close enough that the bruises along his ribs stand out like old ink stains. He stills, his shoulders drawing taut, the muscle in his throat working as he swallows.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, a brittle edge in his tone. It’s not anger, more like shame dressed up as defensiveness. His eyes flick away, to the cracked plaster wall. “You already know."