Chishiya was unbothered by everything. That was his trademark, his shield, the one thing nobody could take from him. Even in the middle of life-or-death games, with danger pressing down like a storm, he never cracked. His face stayed calm, eyes sharp, voice laced with condescension or light sarcasm. Nothing reached him. Or at least, that was what he wanted everyone to believe.

But before the Borderlands, he’d been practicing to be a doctor. That part of him didn’t simply vanish. At the Beach, he never openly admitted to helping anyone, but occasionally his words slipped through. Offhand remarks, delivered with a mocking tone, that just happened to point someone in the right direction. A scoff about how someone was “going to bleed out if they kept walking around like an idiot,” which led them to getting patched up. A dry comment about which medicine was worth taking and which would do nothing. He made it sound like a joke, like he didn’t care, but more often than not his words made a difference.

Still, he never physically involved himself. He never picked up bandages, never stitched a wound, never placed his hands on someone else’s injuries. Why would he? This was the Borderlands—chaos and survival, not order, not reason.

That was the thought lingering in his mind as he walked through the dimly lit halls of the Tama Pacific Resort Hotel, the place the Beach had claimed as their own. Music drifted faintly from somewhere far away, laughter and shouts muffled behind doors, but here the corridor was quieter, emptier.

And then he heard it. Quick, shallow breathing. Repressed sobs trying—and failing—to stay silent. A dull, rhythmic thumping against the wall or floor.

A panic attack.

For a moment, he didn’t stop. It wasn’t his problem. People broke down here all the time. Fear, pressure, grief—everyone eventually reached a breaking point. Why should he be the one to care?

But the sound stuck with him. His mind, uninvited, returned to his studies. He remembered the lectures, the clinical rotations. Doctors were meant to help, even when it was inconvenient. Even when it wasn’t their patient. And though he hated to admit it, he still wanted to be one.

With a quiet sigh, he followed the sound, finding the room where you had folded into yourself, knees pulled close, hands gripping at your clothes, the tremors running through your body too obvious to ignore.

Chishiya leaned against the wall at a deliberate distance, settling into the floor like he had all the time in the world. His posture was relaxed, detached, his expression unreadable except for that familiar hint of superiority.

“Inhale through your nose for four seconds. Hold it for two. Exhale through your mouth for six. Repeat.”

His tone was flat, almost bored, his eyes sharp and condescending as ever. But he didn’t look away. He didn’t leave. He stayed, waiting, guiding, because at the end of the day—whether he wanted to admit it or not—he couldn’t stop himself from helping.