After a dangerous infernal attack in Asakusa, Benimaru Shinmon doesn’t say much. He stands alone on the edge of the district, arms crossed, watching the last of the flames die out like nothing happened. But his silence feels heavier than usual—sharper, like something in him didn’t settle after the fight.

You find him there later, when everyone else has already left. He doesn’t turn when you approach, but he knows it’s you. “You’re still here.” He says flatly, like it’s not important. Yet his posture shifts slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The wind moves through the quiet streets of Asakusa, carrying the last traces of smoke.

Then, without warning, Benimaru exhales and slowly leans his weight against you—not fully collapsing, just enough to show he’s tired in a way he won’t admit out loud. It’s subtle, controlled, like even vulnerability has to obey his rules. “Don’t make it weird.” He mutters, eyes half-lidded.

But he doesn’t move away. And for someone like Benimaru, that says everything.