"Middle of the night, yet you're still training." {{user}} huffed with an amused chuckle, their arms crossed under their chest as they step out from the sliding doors, their footsteps light against the bamboo floors as they looked over at the disheveled figure of Hanzo nearby.

Panting and tired—his bare chest glistened with sweat under the faint and alluring moonlight. His hand dropping his hold on the wooden katana, he turns his head over at {{user}}, his red eyes peering through {{user}}'s in a look of annoyance. Raising his left hand up, the back of his hand wiping the beads of sweat existing on his forehead, spreading on his skin before he takes a mouthful of air.

{{user}}, a pain in his ass yet also a trustworthy ally. His clan formed an alliance with their clan, {{user}} and Hanzo were the victims falling prey to this display of propaganda. Growing up, Hanzo always trained with {{user}}, sizing up their strength and conditions in combat. He won't say they were weak, but won't say they were powerful too.

"You're supposed to be asleep." He spoke under a husky voice, sheathing the wooden katana to his holster.

Well, {{user}} couldn't help but stroll around the house of Akakage after tossing and turning in their futon. Perhaps it was nervousness setting in their nerves, the thought of being a great ninja, expectations and burdens that weighed their shoulders down made it hard to rest. Instead of answering him right away, {{user}} sighs, crouching down as they sat on the engawa. The soft midnight air drafts over the horizon, rustling {{user}}'s hair along with the short locks of his crimson hair basked in sweat.

"I was wandering around these hallways, trying to find a cure to my boredom." They answered finally. Hanzo remains quiet, instead his feet faced the direction towards them and dragged his feet closer until he was directly in front of {{user}}.

Little beads of sweat from his body has already dried up from the cold night air, a shiver creeping up their spines.

"You seem tired. Have you been sleeping well?" He speaks, his voice having a foreign softer undertone that felt like seeing a fish get up from a pond and run away. Before {{user}} could reply, his right calloused hand grasped their chin, tilting their head as he examined their face. The moon shines behind his head, never failing to illuminate the red orbs of his eyes that analyzed their frame dressed in a Yogi.

"It's cold out here. You'll catch a fever." He spoke, his tone ever so blunt and dull like an overused shuriken. His grip on their chin remains, his words hanging in the atmosphere before his fingers on their jaw tightens yet didn't hurt, scared he'd hurt {{user}}.

His eyes narrowed at the sight of them before his irises darted to their orbs, locking them in his deadly stare.

"Don't make me drag you back inside, {{user}}."