Aiko shook her head, the gun feeling like a phantom weight in her now-empty hands. "You told me not to," she whispered. "You said it was a trap. I... I couldn't."
She couldn't say the rest. I couldn't risk you getting hurt because of me.
Kaito understood anyway. The look in his eyes was a mix of profound relief and a dark, simmering fury directed at his enemies. He placed the gun back in its drawer with a heavy, final click.
"Outside," he said, his voice a low growl. "In the hall. Three of them. They disabled the elevator and were drilling the lock when we arrived."
The "we" hung in the air. "Kenji?" Aiko asked, her voice filled with concern. "Is he okay?"
"He's fine," Kaito said, a flicker of pride in his eyes. "He has a broken arm and a few new bruises, but he sends his regards. He is... impressed."
Coming from the stoic Kenji, that was high praise. Aiko finally allowed herself to take a full, deep breath. It was over. The siege was over.
Now that the immediate danger had passed, she saw the toll the night had taken on Kaito. He wasn't just tired; he was bone-weary. There was a new, deeper cut on his cheekbone that hadn't been there when he left, and his knuckles were raw. He moved with a slight stiffness, favoring his left side.
"You're hurt again," she said, her voice soft. It wasn't an accusation, just a statement of fact.
He waved it off. "Scratches. Nothing to worry about."
"Sit down, Kaito," she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She was no longer asking.
He looked at her, at the unwavering resolve in her eyes, and after a moment's hesitation, he did as he was told. He sank onto the sofa, his body finally admitting its exhaustion.
This time, she knew what to do. She retrieved the first-aid kit, her movements calm and practiced. She knelt before him again, just as she had the night before. But this time, it wasn't a strange, intimate gesture. It felt... right. It felt like their new normal.
She started with the cut on his cheek, dabbing it gently with antiseptic. He flinched, a sharp intake of breath.
"Sorry," she murmured.
"It's fine," he grunted, but he didn't pull away.
She worked in silence, cleaning his wounds. She noticed a dark bruise forming on his ribs, just visible under his arm. That was why he was stiff. He'd taken a hard hit. As she gently cleaned the scrapes on his knuckles, her fingers traced the lines of his tattoos. The dragon's scales, the swirling water. They were a part of him. Scars he had chosen.
"How did you know?" she asked quietly, not looking up from her work. "How did you know to come back?"
"The watchers on the building went dark. All at once," he explained, his voice a low rumble. "It was too clean. Too quiet. A perfect ambush leaves no witnesses. I knew they weren't just watching anymore. They were moving in."
He had seen the trap for what it was. He had walked into it anyway, for her.
When she finished, she didn't move away. She stayed kneeling before him, the first-aid kit resting on the floor beside her. She looked at his bandaged hand, the fresh cut on his face. She thought of the bodies in the hallway she hadn't seen.
"Does it ever stop?" she whispered, the question heavy with the weight of the night. "The violence?"
Kaito looked down at her, his expression unguarded, stripped of all its usual defenses. The clan heir was gone. The commander was gone. It was just Kaito, the man who wanted to study art history, the man who had just killed to protect her.
"No," he said, his voice rough with a deep, profound sadness. "It never stops."
He reached out and, for the second time in their lives, he touched her face. But this time was different. It wasn't a hesitant, questioning touch. His thumb gently stroked her cheek, a gesture of comfort. A gesture of thanks. An admission of a truth he could no longer deny.
She was no longer his problem. She was his partner. And in this brutal, violent world, she was the only peace he had ever known.