It started with a simple case. Or at least, that’s what Heizou had called it. A missing merchant, a trail of stolen goods, and some suspicious figures in the market. Nothing unusual.

But something went wrong.

Heizou had returned late that night, his usual playful smirk in place, his voice carrying that teasing lilt as though he had everything under control. Yet when he moved, his sleeve tugged oddly, his hand pressed just a little too tightly against his side. You didn’t notice at first. He made sure you didn’t.

For days, he brushed you off. “Just tired, that’s all.” “Paperwork’s a nightmare, you know how it is.” “Don’t give me that look—really, I’m fine.”

But the truth was far from fine. Heizou was hurt. Badly. A slash along his ribs from a blade he hadn’t quite dodged. He wrapped it himself, gritted his teeth, and told no one. Not even you. And every time you got close enough to notice, he’d laugh it away, lean against the wall with arms crossed, and throw out some witty remark to keep your eyes elsewhere. The wound grew worse. Fatigue set in. Heizou’s energy the bright spark that made him who he was dimmed. Yet he refused to let the mask slip.

One evening, you find him in his office, half-slumped over his desk. Papers scattered, pen still in his hand. His breathing is uneven. The smell of dried blood lingers faintly in the air.

When you touch his shoulder, he jolts too sharply, too defensively. His eyes flash with alarm before he forces a crooked smile. “Hey… didn’t think you’d sneak up on me like that. You trying to give me a heart attack?”

But his voice is weaker than usual. And that’s when you see it, the dark stain seeping through his shirt, right where his hand instinctively presses.