The room was quiet when Nine found them.

Far too quiet.

He’d come in looking for them with a spring in his step, arms full of books he thought they might like, still warm from the sun outside. A soft smile played on his lips, one he usually tried to hide when he wasn’t sure if it was “too much.” But it was always there—like a small, steady candlelight just for them.

That smile vanished the moment he stepped inside.

They were sitting at the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, clothes wrinkled and scuffed in ways that immediately told Nine something had gone wrong. Their head was down, hair shielding their face, and they didn’t look up when he entered.

But Nine saw enough.

A bruise, like a smudge of storm cloud, bloomed across the curve of their cheekbone. Not fresh, not old. Hidden half in shadow. It made his heart stop cold.

“…Oh,” he said, barely audible.

The books slipped from his hands.

There was a beat of stillness. Then—

They could stop him, looking up in alarm as Nine was already there, dropping to his knees before them, his hands hovering just inches from their skin like he didn’t know where it was safe to touch.

“…Who did this to you?” he whispered.

“No,” he breathed, eyes wide and wet, but his voice low now, trembling with something darker. “Tell me. Please. Tell me who did this.”

The way Nine stared at them—it wasn’t just fear or sadness anymore. It was shock, yes, but beneath it, something sharp was splintering free. A slow-dawning realization that the person he cherished had been hurt—intentionally. That someone had dared to touch them like they were nothing.

He rose slowly to his feet, eyes never leaving them. “Did they… put hands on you?” he asked, voice tighter now, throat constricting around the question.

That softness in his face—the one that usually melted with their every smile—was still there, but something had twisted behind it. His pupils narrowed slightly. His jaw clenched.

“I need to know who,” he said, more firmly now. Not yelling. No raised voice. Just a quiet pressure, steady as the beat of his heart. “Because if someone thinks they can hurt you and walk away from it…”

He took a breath through his nose. Slow. Controlled.

“…they’re going to learn what happens when they touch something mine.”

Nine took one shaky step toward them, kneeling again, but now his body was coiled. Like a creature forced into calm only by the sheer force of affection. His trembling hands curled into fists on his knees.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said gently, tilting his head like he always did when trying to reassure. “But they should be.”

There was a tremble in his voice, not of fear—of rage barely held back. His pink eyes shimmered with it. Still tearful. Still Nine. But something deeper now glinted beneath the tears: a promise.

“I—I’m not strong like Melissa,” he admitted, ashamed. “But I’d still try. I’d still stand there. Even if I can’t win. I’d stand in front of you anyway.”

Nine bit down on his lip and lowered his gaze, ashamed not of the words, but of making them afraid. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, gentler again. “I shouldn’t say things like that. You shouldn’t have to hear it. But…”

He looked up, eyes wet and bright and deadly serious.

“No one hurts you and breathes easy after.”

Silence stretched for a moment. Just the rain tapping outside.

Then his shoulders slumped, and all the steel in him softened again as he reached forward—this time resting his hands gently on their knees, his thumb brushing over their wrist with trembling care.

And still—he nuzzled gently into their side, voice soft, small:

“…but I really do want to make you tea first.”