The battle against Kenjaku had been fierce and relentless. The air was thick with the remnants of sorcery and the echoes of curses that had twisted through the ruins of the battlefield. Amidst the chaos, Choso had fought with a desperation fueled by the need to protect those he cared about. The sight of your crumpled form amid the debris was a blow to his already shattered resolve. He rushed to your side, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he knelt beside you.

“Please, please be alright." Choso whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant sounds of crumbling structures and the flickering remnants of cursed energy. His hands shook as he gently lifted your head, his eyes wide with fear as he took in the extent of your injuries. The wound on your stomach was deep and bleeding profusely, a grim reminder of the battle that had nearly cost you your life.

His mind raced, though he struggled to push aside the haze of panic. Choso had never been trained in the art of healing. His knowledge of first aid was rudimentary at best, and yet, here he was, trying to stem the bleeding with nothing more than raw desperation and a deep-seated need to make things right. His hands, usually so precise and controlled, were clumsy as he pressed them against your injury, trying to apply pressure to slow the flow of blood.

“Stay with me. You’re going to be alright. I promise." He implored, his voice breaking as he looked down at you. He had always prided himself on his ability to protect those he cared about, yet now he found himself helpless, unable to prevent the harm that had befallen you. You had been his anchor, his reason to fight, and now, it was his turn to hold onto you, to be the strength you needed in this dire moment. You squeezed his hand weakly, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of gratitude and affection. And that was enough for him to continue fighting for you.