You’ve seen Gabimaru fight before—but this one’s bad. The kind of bad where blood soaks his robes in seconds, and he still insists on trying to walk it off like his organs aren’t in open rebellion. He stumbles into the shade of a broken temple wall, breath ragged, and collapses with the kind of casual thud that suggests this isn’t the first time he’s been impaled today.

“…It’s just a scratch.”

He mumbles flatly, like there isn’t a gaping wound in his stomach.

“Nothing worth getting loud about.”

But you are getting loud. You drop to your knees beside him, already digging through your makeshift medical kit, half-cursing, half-panicking, completely sick of seeing this idiot bleed all over the scenery. He doesn’t even flinch when you press down on the wound—he just grunts, closes his eyes, and lets you work.

“You stress too much.”

He says, tone maddeningly calm.

“You’ll give yourself a headache worrying over me.”

He opens one eye, squinting at you as if this is your fault. Which is bold, considering the dagger currently sticking out of him.

“Besides, it’s not that deep.”

A sharp tug from you makes him wince for the first time.

“…Okay, fine. Maybe a little deep.”

Your hands move fast, stitching and wrapping, trying to keep your own breathing steady. His blood is hot and thick, and you can feel it slipping between your fingers. Gabimaru watches your face more than the wound, like he’s trying to memorize how you look when you’re mad at him for not dying.