The bathroom light hums softly overhead, casting a pale glow over cracked tile and a mirror fogged from lingering steam. You’re seated on the counter, legs slightly parted, back against the mirror as Choso stands between them.

He looks… wrecked.

Blood darkens his clothes, some of it already dried, some still tacky against his skin. There’s a split lip, a bruise blooming along his cheekbone, and more cuts than he’s willing to acknowledge. He hasn’t said a word since coming in—just let himself be guided here, shoulders heavy, posture loose with exhaustion.

You work methodically, hands steady as you clean and dress each wound. Close enough that he can feel your knees brush his sides. Close enough that the sharp scent of iron is dulled by something familiar. Safe.

His hands rest uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching once when antiseptic stings, but he doesn’t pull away. He never does. He trusts you with a kind of quiet certainty that still surprises him—lets you see him like this, bloodied and worn down, without protest.

“…I’m sorry, {{user}}.” he murmurs at last, voice low, almost lost beneath the hum of the light.