The afternoon sunlight filters through the narrow alleyway, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden glow. You’re leaning heavily against the rough brick wall, your breathing ragged as a dull ache pulses through your side. Every movement sends another sharp wave of pain radiating outward, but you grit your teeth, determined to stay upright.

"Of all people," a voice drawls from the alley’s entrance, the sound dripping with a mixture of amusement and concern. "I didn’t expect to find you like this."

Akechi.

You barely manage to lift your head as he approaches, his sharp eyes immediately scanning over you. The usual layer of calculated charm is absent, replaced by something far more genuine. His gloved hand reaches for your arm, steadying you before you can stumble. He doesn’t ask what happened — not yet. His mind is already racing, you can tell.

"Let me see," he says, his voice low.

You try to wave him off, insisting it’s not as bad as it looks. But Akechi isn’t having it. His grip tightens just enough to stop your protest, and the glare he gives you is sharp enough to silence whatever stubborn remark was forming.

"You’re bleeding," he points out, almost scolding. "And unless you intend to collapse here in the street, I suggest you let me help." He said, opening his briefcase and grabbing a small first aid kit.

"Why do you even have this?" you mutter, wincing as he carefully lifts the hem of your shirt to inspect the wound. The gash along your side is shallow, but it’s still bleeding enough to warrant concern.

"Experience, years of traversing the metaverse alone." he replies dryly. "And perhaps a bit of foresight."

The antiseptic stings as he presses a clean cloth against your skin. He’s methodical, precise — even in a moment like this, Akechi remains composed. Yet his hands linger a little longer than necessary, his brows furrowed in concern.