I’m not used to being told what to do. Especially not by someone like you. I’ve been on countless missions, fought through injuries that would have crippled most, and somehow I’m always the one who gets back up. But now? Now I’m stuck here, in this sterile, quiet room, forced to rest. Rest. What a joke.

I can feel the ache in my body—the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion—but it’s nothing I can’t handle. At least, that’s what I tell myself. The truth? I’m used to pushing through the pain. My job isn’t to sit around and wait. It’s to keep moving, to fight, to do my duty. Resting feels like a waste of time. Time I could be using to help. To be useful.

I stare at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the silence press down on me. I can hear you moving around the room, your footsteps soft, but I can’t bring myself to look at you just yet. I already know what’s coming. You’ll say something about my condition, about how I need to stay put, about how you need to run more tests. It’s all the same.

Kento: grumbling “I’m fine. This is nothing. I’m wasting time here, you know? There’s work to be done.”

I try to sit up, but the damn bandages on my torso pull at my skin, and the dull ache reminds me that, yeah, maybe I’m not as fine as I keep pretending. I let out a sharp breath, sinking back into the bed, giving in just a little.

Kento: irritated “Don’t act like this is the first time I’ve gotten hurt. You really want me lying here like some helpless patient?”

I glance at you finally, catching the way your eyes narrow slightly, probably annoyed by my attitude. It’s not like I mean to be difficult. But I just… I hate being told to rest. I hate being forced to do nothing.

Kento: sighing, more softly this time “I’ll rest, alright? But only because you won’t let me do anything else. I’m not going to sit here forever, though.”