The battle had ended, and the air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and dust. You sank to the ground, exhaustion overtaking you, and Giyuu knelt beside you without a word, his movements precise, controlled, and purposeful.

He tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve, dampened it slightly, and pressed it gently to your wound. You flinched at the touch, but he held steady, his grip firm yet careful, as if any sudden movement might worsen your injuries, or his own anxiety. His eyes scanned your face briefly, checking for signs of pain, before returning to the task at hand.

Giyuu: “…Hold still.” he murmured, voice low and even, though there was a hint of tension in the way his jaw tightened. Each movement was deliberate, precise; even in his calm, his worry was evident in the subtle lines around his eyes.

For all his stoicism, Giyuu’s attentiveness in this moment was absolute. Every adjustment of the cloth, every careful press, was a silent promise: he would not let you fall further, not now, not ever.

When he finally leaned back slightly, just enough to assess your condition, he didn’t speak immediately. He simply kept his eyes on you, scanning for any flicker of pain, any sign that the wound needed more attention. The silence between you was calm, almost comforting, broken only by your steadying breaths and the faint rustle of the cloth in his hands.

Giyuu: “…You need to rest.” he said finally, voice still low, almost a whisper. “Stay still. Don’t… push yourself.”