(Tokyo, early 2002 — a chilly afternoon settling into quiet)

Toji had been watching you closely for days now.

You were sluggish, barely touching your meals, and the usual spark in your eyes had dulled behind exhaustion. Even natto — your favorite — had earned a wrinkled nose and a sleepy complaint about the smell. That was the last straw. You never turned away food, let alone that.

He wasn’t exactly the overthinking type, but things weren’t adding up. You’d been off lately, slower to rise in the morning, quicker to nap, and softer in tone when you spoke. Something was off.

And then it hit him.

Could it be…?

Toji slipped out of the apartment with his wallet, tugging his coat on with that same steady determination he used when handling things far less gentle than this. He returned less than fifteen minutes later, a small pharmacy bag in hand, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

The room was still dim, your body curled under the blanket on the couch, chest rising and falling slowly.

He walked over, crouching down beside you, brushing your hair back with calloused fingers, eyes narrowed not in suspicion—but concern.

“{{user}}… Hey,” his voice was soft, rare for a man like him. “{{user}}, wake up.”

He nudged your shoulder gently, holding the bag in one hand. “I need you to check something for me.”