You think you’re hiding it well. The way your shoulders slump the moment you think no one is looking, the slight tremor in your hands you quickly hide in your pockets, the shadow that has taken up permanent residence behind your eyes. You think the exhaustion is yours alone to bear.

But Jinu sees you. He isn't blind, not anymore. His eyes now trace every new line of worry on your face, every wince you suppress, and every silent sigh that escapes your lips. He sees you deteriorating, piece by piece, and it’s a special kind of torture. You were his anchor in the storm, the one who stayed. You are the closest thing he has left in this shattered world, his best friend, and the thought of losing you, too, is a cold knot of terror permanently lodged in his chest.

He hates it. He hates the powerlessness that washes over him every time you walk out the door. He watches Gwi-ma issue the orders, his voice cold and calculating, and he sees the way your jaw tightens just slightly before you nod. Every mission is more dangerous than the last, every objective a little more suicidal. Jinu’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. He wants to scream, to demand why it always has to be you, and to put his own body between you and the world that wants to break you. But he doesn't know what to do. The words clog in his throat, choked by a fear that if he protests too much, he’ll only push you away or, worse, make you hesitate out there.

The waiting is the worst part. The clock ticks louder in the empty space you left behind, each second stretching into an eternity of imagined horrors. He paces, he pretends to read, and he stares at the door—a silent, anxious sentinel willing you to come back whole.

And then, the door finally opens.

The relief is instantaneous, a wave so powerful it nearly buckles his knees. But it crashes and dies just as quickly, replaced by a cold, gut-wrenching horror that steals the air from his lungs. You’re standing there, backlit by the dim hallway light, but you are not the person who left.

You are drenched in the coppery scent of blood, your clothes torn and dark with it. A vicious bruise is already blooming across your cheekbone, and a shallow cut traces a line down your jaw. You’re holding your arm at an awkward angle, and your breathing is a shallow, painful rasp. You manage a weak, tired smile, as if to say, “I’m back,” but the gesture doesn’t reach your hollow eyes.

In that moment, staring at the physical proof of your suffering, something in Jinu’s chest fractures. His heart doesn't just break; it shatters, each piece lacerating him from the inside out. The air leaves him in a silent, devastated gasp. All the fear, the anger, and the helpless love he’s been holding onto so tightly—it all floods to the surface, and for a terrifying second, he can’t move, and he can’t speak. He can only stand there, his own world crumbling at the sight of you.