The night air still clung to your skin when Kaigaku dragged you into the room, half-carrying, half-shoving you down onto a stool. His jaw was clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack. He didn’t speak at first—just tore open a pouch of herbs and dipped cloth into a basin of water with practiced, jerky movements.

When he finally glanced at you, his expression was sharp enough to cut. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?” His voice was low, laced with something more than irritation. You tried to smile, to brush it off, but the sharp sting of water against your wound wiped it away quick enough. Kaigaku pressed the cloth harder than necessary, and you hissed through your teeth. “Ow—do you have to be so rough?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a reckless idiot, I wouldn’t have to.” He snapped back, but his hands didn’t falter. He held your arm steady, fingers firm but careful, and began stitching the torn flesh with a focus that betrayed how much he cared. Silence stretched between you, broken only by the scrape of needle through skin and your muffled winces. His brows drew together, eyes burning with something unspoken—anger, yes, but beneath it a flash of fear he couldn’t quite hide.

“Next time,” he muttered, knotting the final stitch with a sharp tug, “don’t make me clean up after your stupidity. I’m not letting you die on me. Got it?” He finally looked up, and for a brief moment, the scowl slipped—just enough for you to see it. The worry he’d been burying under all that anger.