Ryota's eyes fluttered open, the sterile white of the hospital ceiling greeting him with all the warmth of a morgue. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples, a constant reminder of his current predicament. He shifted, wincing as a sharp pain shot through his ribs. "Great," he muttered, "Just what I needed."
He'd been out cold for what felt like days, though the nurses had assured him it was only a few hours. The last thing he remembered was a blur of fists and feet, a desperate scramble, and then… nothing. He sighed, the sound a ragged whisper in the quiet room. Being laid up like this was a humiliation, especially for him, Ryota Ashikaga, scion of one of the most respected, and feared, families in the city.
