041

The infirmary was quiet save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the faint rustle of pages as Mori flipped through a file he clearly wasn't reading.

You sat perched on the examination bed like a lounging cat, one leg swinging absently, the other tucked beneath you.

A square of gauze pressed to your cheek, now swollen and beginning to bruise a livid plum red beneath the surface.

The slap had been brutal. Not the first you'd received, not even the worst, but certainly among the more satisfying.

"Reckless," Mori said, not looking up.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye and picked at your ear with your pinky.

He sighed.

"Utterly reckless. Provoking a clan head to violence in our underground cells? Really, L/N-kun?"

You shrugged, cotton still pressed to your cheek. "Would you rather I bond him?"

That got his attention. He looked up, dark eyes gleaming with theatrical disappointment. "Oh, now don't tempt me with a mental image I can't unsee."

You grinned. "You sound like you care."

"I do," he said immediately, setting the file aside with a sigh and crossing the room with physician's grace.

"I care about cleaning up the mess if someone puts a bullet in your brain. It would be so tiresome."

You rolled your eyes. "Then let me do it myself. I'm the one with medical training."

"Oh, but I enjoy playing doctor. Don’t deny me my little pleasures."

He took your chin in one gloved hand and tilted your face to examine the damage.

It stung where his fingers brushed the bruise, and your eye twitched— but you made no sound.

Mori clicked his tongue dramatically. "Suzuki-dono certainly has a strong wrist. Honestly, he’s quite efficient. I should consider working with him more once he recovers from the emotional trauma you just dropped like a piano from the tenth floor."

You laughed softly. "Wouldn’t recommend it. He’s not as obedient as me."

Mori smirked. "No, he isn’t nearly as entertaining either. You’re like a rabid stray I’ve half domesticated. Not housebroken, but you come when called."

You let out a long breath, amused. "I bite too."

He dabbed antiseptic against your cheek with exaggerated delicacy. "Yes, and you make such a mess of your toys afterward."

You stared at him, silent for a beat. Then, in a voice far too quiet to be anything but sincere, you asked:

"Why do you even bother? Treating me like this."

Mori’s fingers paused.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first. Then he chuckled, low and dangerous.

"Because, L/N-kun," he said, voice warm like poison tea.

"You’re the most beautiful disaster I’ve ever crafted. You remind me of who I was before I wore this mask. I find that nostalgic."

You blinked.

He patted your head.

"And let’s not forget—I find you hilarious."

You scoffed. "You mean pitiful."

"No, no. Pitiful would mean I pity you. I don’t. I simply enjoy watching the trainwreck unfold."

He wrapped the gauze tighter, ignoring your wince.

"There. All done. Now go traumatize someone else. Preferably not a clan patriarch this time."

You hopped off the bed, the faintest wobble in your step as the pain pulsed through your cheek. But you grinned like the Cheshire Cat and gave Mori a mock salute.

"Yes, Mori-san."

He waved a hand. "Out. I’m busy ignoring my responsibilities."

You sauntered out of the infirmary, coat flapping at your heels, the scent of antiseptic still clinging to your skin.

The hallways of the port mafia headquarters were quieter than usual.

Perhaps word had spread. Perhaps your laughter in the cells had unsettled more people than you realized.

Your footsteps were steady, if a little lazy. One hand tucked into your pocket. The other still absently brushing your cheek.

And then—

"...L/N-san."

The voice stopped you. Chuuya’s.

You turned.

He stood down the hallway, arms crossed, posture casual, but his eyes fixed on the cotton taped to your cheek, on the red still peeking out from beneath.

You didn’t speak.

Chuuya’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something, then snapped shut. He approached, boots clicking sharply on the stone floor.

"What the hell happened to your face?" he asked, trying for neutral but failing.

There was a twitch of concern in his brow. "You got into a fight?"

You tilted your head. "Something like that."

"Who the hell was dumb enough to try that with you?" he muttered.

"You’re port mafia's executive. People don’t just—"

"Oh, but they do," you interrupted gently, a smile curling your lips.

"Sometimes. When they think they’re owed something."

He looked you over again, suspicion flaring.

"Which bastard is it?"

You didn’t answer.

Chuuya scowled. "They're lucky you didn’t tear out their throat."

You stepped closer, just slightly, amused by how the scent of iron still clung to you—and how Chuuya didn’t back away.

"You care, Chuuya?"

His eyes snapped to yours. "I just don’t like seeing people get hurt for no damn reason."

You chuckled. "I’ve had worse."

Chuuya’s expression faltered, and you saw it—the way he swallowed hard, the flicker of worry.

It was endearing.

And so ironic.

You, who had bled countless others, who wore cruelty like a crown, being worried for.

You could hardly blame him. You were an executive. One of the monsters at the top. No one touched you unless they wanted to die.

Except, apparently, your own father.

You patted Chuuya’s shoulder lightly, mock gentle. "Thanks for the concern. Really. But don’t lose sleep over me. I always return the favor."

Chuuya huffed with furrowed brows, but he didn’t move away.

You turned, walking down the hallway once more.

Behind you, Chuuya remained rooted in place, staring after you.

You didn’t look back.