The backstage lights were dim, but you could feel his gaze burning into you from the shadows. Jinu stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the monitor broadcasting your performance. He knew you’d win—how could you not? Your voice was pure light, your determination unshakable. He believed in you more than he believed in anything else in this wretched world.

Then it happened. The scores flashed—your victory undeniable. But triumph turned to horror in an instant. Your opponent’s rage erupted, a blur of violence as they lunged, the microphone cracking against your face before their own body hit the floor. By the time Jinu reached you, it was already over. You were unconscious, blood smeared across your cheek, your eye already darkening with bruises.

He should have been relieved. The one who hurt you was dead. But all he felt was fury—white-hot and useless—because he couldn’t even punish them for what they’d done.

Now, in the sterile quiet of the infirmary, his thumb traces slow circles over your knuckles, his grip just tight enough to remind himself you’re still here. Your face is a mess of purple and bandages, but you’re breathing. You’re alive. That’s what matters.

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it when he finally speaks, rough with guilt and something far more fragile: "Don’t worry... I’m here now."

And he is. Always. Because you’re the only thing left in this world that makes the fight worth enduring.