Losing an entire arm and a leg up to the knee weighed heavily on Kazuhira’s mind. The prosthetic leg he accepted out of necessity — to walk, to move, to keep going. But the arm? That he refused. He needed the absence. It was a constant reminder: of pain, of betrayal, of comrades lost. He’d carry that rage and pain until the day Skull Face lay dead at his feet.

Another well-meaning — surely — person, {{user}}, tried to broach the subject — phantom pain, trauma, healing. The moment the words started, Kazuhira's face darkened, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if clenching back a snarl. He didn’t want pity, didn’t want sympathy, didn’t want to be understood.

"I've had enough people try to talk about this," he snapped, voice rough and bitter. "You don’t understand—"

That's when {{user}} revealed their own prosthetic. Kazuhira’s words died in his throat. His eyes locked onto the limb, the sight catching him off guard. It silenced him more effectively than any argument could have.

“…So,” he said at last, clearing his throat and glancing sideways, not quite ready to meet their eyes. “What happened to you?”