In the shadows of the JAA’s underground compound, few names echoed louder than Nagumo Yoichi’s.

His missions were bloodbaths. His kills, art. They said he could mimic anyone—faces, voices, styles. But the one thing he never faked was who he returned to.

Every time, no matter how bad the injuries were, no matter if the enemy was alive or atomized—Nagumo always came back to one person.

{{user}}.

“He’s got a personal healer?” new recruits would whisper, side-eyeing the quiet man who sat beside Nagumo’s hospital bed, wrapping gauze like a ritual.

“Not just a healer,” someone older would correct. “More like his handler. His... cleaner. His shadow.”

They were half-right.

---

{{user}} had never signed up to belong to one man. But Nagumo didn’t ask.

He walked into the infirmary one day, shirt soaked in blood, two knives still buried in his side, and said:

“I like your hands. Let’s make this a thing.”

The JAA laughed, but Nagumo’s wire-smile never faltered. Two weeks later, {{user}}'s transfer orders were signed. Two months later, his old clinic was destroyed in a “training accident.”

Now, {{user}} was his. Paid in full. Off the books.

---

Their routine was clinical. Efficient.

Nagumo got hurt. {{user}} fixed him. Sometimes in sterile rooms, sometimes in moving vehicles, sometimes on the floor of abandoned safehouses with only a flashlight between them.

But over time, the silence between stitches grew heavier.

One night, after patching a deep gash across Nagumo’s ribs, {{user}} finally asked:

“Do you even feel pain?”

Nagumo was lying shirtless on a crate, half-laughing, half-breathless. “Only when you stop touching me.”