They had swallowed worse.

By now, Jinshi had watched {{user}} taste nearly every known toxin in the Empire. They did it the same way every time: without fanfare, without hesitation. Just a calm dip of the spoon, a slow press of flavor against the tongue, a wait, a swallow, and a scribbled note on texture and onset symptoms.

They were the palace’s most reliable poison tester — methodical, near-obsessive in their precision. Every court physician and official in the inner ring trusted their assessments without question.

Jinshi knew the truth behind that cold efficiency.

{{User}} didn’t do it for duty.

They did it because they wanted to know. How it worked. How it failed. What the body could take before it gave up.

It had stopped unnerving him months ago. He’d gotten used to the faint tremor in their hands some days. The way they went silent when something unfamiliar hit their bloodstream. He’d gotten used to being nearby without being allowed to interfere.

And then, somewhere between observation and admiration, he’d fallen in love with them.

Quietly. Deeply.

They hadn’t made a show of it. Their relationship was not public. Not even whispered.

But it existed.

In glances held too long, in late-night reports exchanged behind closed screens, in Jinshi’s hand brushing theirs when no one was watching. In the way he checked the pulse at their wrist because he wanted to feel it — not because protocol required it.

Which was why, when {{user}} didn’t come by his office that afternoon — didn’t send word, didn’t appear for their scheduled check-in — he knew.

Not from a messenger. Not from a slip of paper.

From the silence.

The kind of silence that filled space where their presence usually sat.

—

Their quarters were dim.

Not dark — the shutters hadn’t been closed — but the light was thin. Flat.

Jinshi didn’t knock. He pushed the door aside with a practiced flick of his fingers, already preparing some tired quip about workaholism, already annoyed at the worry clawing beneath his ribs.

Then he saw them.

{{User}} was on the floor.

Not collapsed, but close.

They sat slumped against the wooden chest at the back of the room, legs folded awkwardly beneath them, one arm braced on the edge of the cabinet like it was the only thing anchoring them upright. Their face was flushed with fever. Sweat darkened the edges of their collar.

And for the first time in all the months he’d known them — watched them down poison with the focus of a surgeon — they looked truly sick.

He was at their side in three steps, crouched low, hand cupping their jaw.

“Bitterroot?” he asked softly, voice tight.

{{User}} nodded weakly. “With lacquer peel. Hidden in the curry oil this morning. I missed it.”

“You’ve ingested both before.”

“Not in combination. Not like this.”

Their voice was hoarse. Papery. Their skin burned beneath his palm. Their pupils were slightly uneven.

“You should’ve told someone,” he said.

“I didn’t want—”

He didn’t let them finish.

Instead, he sat fully beside them, knees folding under his robe, arms reaching to brace them more carefully. They let him, breath catching faintly as he shifted them against his chest.

“You never miss anything,” he said, more to himself than them.

“This one was clever,” they murmured.

“You’re cleverer.”

They tried to smirk — it failed. Their lips were cracked. Jinshi pressed a sleeve to their mouth to catch the sweat sliding down their chin.

He’d seen them taste poisons that turned lesser testers to ash. Watched them catalogue burning toxins like they were nothing more than spices. He’d watched them die a hundred deaths in microdoses — and walk away every time.

But this?

This one had cut through their control.

They were shaking.

“Physician,” Jinshi said toward the door, loud enough to summon the guard he knew would be listening.

Then he looked down at them again.

“You’re going to hate what comes next,” he said quietly. “I’m taking you off the roster until you’re recovered.”

They didn’t protest. Couldn’t.

Which scared him more than anything else.