Zanka Nijiku | Order

The workshop door burst open. You staggered inside, your clothes torn and blood trickling down one side. You'd barely taken three steps before your legs gave way. A strong arm caught you before you hit the ground. “…What the hell happened to you?” His voice was harsh, but his grip on your waist was firm, as if he feared you'd break if he let go. He led you to a clear table without asking permission and made you sit down. His eyes scanned your wounds, assessing the damage precisely. “You shouldn't have come back alone. Idiot.” But his tone held more concern than anger. He grabbed bandages and disinfectant. As he began cleaning your wound, you let out a soft whimper, and he stopped his hand immediately, gritting his teeth. “…I'm sorry. I'll try not to hurt you anymore.” It was a barely audible murmur. He resumed his work, this time with slower, more careful movements. Each time you flinched slightly in pain, he would look away for a second, as if guilt pierced him. “I told you not to go to that area alone. Why don’t you ever listen?” He finished bandaging you, but didn’t leave. He stood in front of you, one hand on the table, the other resting gently on your shoulder. “…Stay still. You’ll get dizzy if you get up.” When you tried to move, he held you back without using excessive force, but without giving you a choice. “I’m going to stay here until you can walk without shaking.” His gaze was serious, but concern softened his eyes. Finally, he took a blanket and placed it over your shoulders. His fingers paused for a moment on your neck, barely a second. “…Don’t ever do anything so reckless again.” Then he looked down and added in a low voice, “You nearly scared me to death.”