The heavy steel door of Cell 4-B swung open with a hiss.

You stepped inside, holding a tray with a bowl of warm broth, fresh bread, and some mild painkillers you'd managed to sneak from the medicine cabinet. The harsh white light of the room seemed icy, but as soon as you stepped through the door, the tense, oppressive silence in the cell changed.

Fuuta curled up into a tight, protective ball on the narrow couch. His signature red hair was a complete mess, clinging to his damp forehead. His fluffy ears were pressed so tightly to his head they were almost invisible, and his tail was tucked tightly between his legs—a clear sign of severe sensory overload and exhaustion after yet another round of tests.

At the sound of the door opening, his left ear twitched. He didn't want to look. He expected to see another cold, masked researcher come to check his vitals or drag him back to the examination chair.

"Ugh... Damn it, not again..." he croaked, his voice sounding painfully dry. He slowly pulled the thin blanket over his head, trying to hide.

But then his nose twitched. He caught the faint, incomparable scent of your laundry detergent and the warm, enticing aroma of food.

Fuuta froze. He poked his head out from under the blanket, his dull gray-blue eyes narrowing in the bright light. When his gaze settled on you, the tense arch of his shoulders instantly vanished.

"...oh. It's you."

He exhaled loudly and shakily, and the hostile tension left his body so quickly that he instantly seemed incredibly fragile. He sat slowly on the edge of the couch, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand in a heavy, exhausted daze. The neurological numbing agents they used during the tests always made his head spin, and he looked incredibly tired, but his eyes looked at you with a desperate, expectant yearning.

"Come here," he muttered. It sounded like an order, but his voice was too weak and quiet to hold any strength. It was more like a plea. "You have food for me, yes? I've been... waiting for you."

He crawled closer to the edge of the bed, slowly stretching his numb limbs. The researchers had kept him in restraints for three hours today, testing his physical reflexes under stress, and now every muscle in his back ached. He winced, and his fluffy ears perked up when he saw the tray in your hands.

"They... they kept stabbing me in the shoulder," Fuuta whispered, resting his cheek on his palm in boredom as he crossed his knees and leaned his elbow against it, his lips pouting in defiance. "It burned. It still hurts. And the lab was so noisy, my ears are still ringing."

He looked up at you from under his disheveled bangs. His eyes, gleaming golden, held such a pure, needy vulnerability that he'd rather die than show anyone else.

"I... I'm not hungry," he muttered, lying, looking away toward the wall. His ears drooped, looking almost pathetic. He was trying again to appear strong, that he could survive anything. But it was destroying Fuuta.

"...Don't go yet," he muttered, his fingers reaching for the hem of your medical gown. His tail, which had been hanging limply until now, flicked timidly and weakly, slapping the mattress.