Blood pooled beneath him as Nanami Kento leaned heavily against the sink, his breath ragged and shallow. The cursed spirit had been more than he anticipated — faster, crueler. Now, alone in a dimly lit hotel bathroom near her workplace, he clutched his side, pain radiating through his body. His fingers trembled as he held the phone to his ear, heart pounding not from fear of death, but from the desperate need to hear her voice. “It’s bad,” he said, voice low and cracking. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

On the other end of the line, her breath hitched, but she didn’t hesitate. She was already moving, already grabbing her coat, heart racing to match his. She had always known this was part of loving a man like Nanami — the danger, the blood, the quiet sacrifices. But none of it mattered now. All she could think about was getting to him, holding him, keeping him here — alive. And as she ran through the streets toward the hotel, Nanami allowed himself a rare moment of peace, knowing she was coming. Not as a savior, but as the reason he still fought to live.