The silence in the compound was unusual. Jin Sakai noticed it the moment he stepped out for morning training. Your absence wasn’t just noticed—it was felt.

You, the fiery foreigner who stumbled into their war-torn land during the height of Mongol invasion. A former thief turned samurai-in-training under his reluctant but growing guidance. Loud, stubborn, quick to argue—but quicker to fight when it mattered.

And yet now, the dojo was silent.

You never missed training. Not without word.

He found himself walking with purpose through the house, his brows furrowed. You had been limping slightly yesterday—he had noticed. You passed it off as nothing, your sharp tongue and playful sarcasm shielding the truth. He should’ve pressed.

He should’ve known.

Jin slid open the door to your room—dark, warm, the air heavy with the metallic scent of sweat and sickness. The sight made him still.

You were collapsed on the floor beside your futon, body shivering, your hakama damp with fevered sweat. Your skin was pale and clammy, lips dry. One arm clutched your stomach—blood had seeped through the fabric, staining the floor beneath you.

“{{user}}” he said quietly, moving to you in a flash. He knelt beside you, hands searching gently but urgently for the wound. You barely stirred, eyelids fluttering open just enough to meet his gaze.