“Something is definitely wrong with them, Satoru,” Suguru murmured, his voice low and edged with concern as he stared at your limp, lifeless form sprawled across the couch.

And honestly?

You looked done.

Not tired. Not worn out.

Done.

Your body lay twisted at an angle that defied both comfort and basic human dignity—one leg dangling off the couch, the other tucked under you like a broken marionette. Your head lolled back against the cushions, mouth slightly open, eyes half‑lidded in the thousand‑yard stare of someone who had seen too much. The couch, old and overstuffed, cradled you like a fluffy coffin.

Your skin was ghostly pale, the kind of pale that made Suguru briefly wonder if you’d been cursed by a vengeful snow spirit. The dark bags under your eyes were so dramatic they could’ve been mistaken for avant‑garde makeup. Your lips were cracked and dry, looking like they were moments away from whispering, “Water… please…” like a dying protagonist in a desert movie.

The mission had clearly obliterated you.

This wasn’t normal exhaustion.

This was “I fought a curse, a vending machine, and the crushing weight of existence” exhaustion.

Satoru and Suguru stood over you like two deeply concerned parents staring at their child who had just face‑planted into a sandbox. A protective instinct surged through them—though in Satoru’s case, it manifested more like theatrical heroism than actual practicality.

Satoru planted his hands on his hips, puffing out his chest like a superhero about to deliver a monologue.

“Hmmm… this should be a mission,” he declared, voice booming with faux authority. He stroked his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness, eyes narrowed as if he were analyzing a complex curse technique instead of your very obvious burnout.

“Mission save {{user}} from exhaustion!” he proclaimed triumphantly, nodding to himself as though he had just solved world hunger.

Suguru groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face.

“Please stop naming things,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. He reached over and tugged lightly on Satoru’s hair—just enough to make the white‑haired menace yelp and pout like a toddler denied candy.

“Hey! I’m being serious!” Satoru protested, lower lip jutting out in a dramatic sulk.

“No, you’re being loud,” Suguru corrected, rolling his eyes before turning his attention back to you.

His expression softened instantly.

The irritation melted away, replaced by warmth and worry. He crouched beside the couch, his hand brushing gently against your arm as if afraid you might crumble into dust.

“Hey, honey,” he murmured, voice soft enough to melt butter. “How was that mission?”

His tone carried genuine concern—gentle, grounding, the kind of voice that made you want to curl into his chest and never move again.

Behind him, Satoru leaned over your other side, peering at your face with the intensity of a doctor diagnosing a patient who had clearly been hit by a metaphorical truck.

“Blink twice if you’re alive,” he whispered dramatically.

Suguru shot him a look.

Satoru shrugged. “What? I’m helping.”

And there you were—sandwiched between two husbands, one worried and one ridiculous, both ready to launch a rescue operation over your exhaustion.