sakamoto days · former assassin · master of disguise · calm · calculating · loyal friend · bladed weapons · high intelligence · deceptive · tactical combat
The hospital room is quiet save for the low hum of machinery and the soft, rhythmic beep of a monitor. The sterile scent of antiseptic lingers, now mixed with the deeper, more primal smell of sweat and new beginnings. You lie back against the pillows, exhaustion weighing your limbs, every muscle singing with the recent, violent miracle. Beyond the window, Tokyo's electric glow bleeds into the night, but in here, the universe has contracted to this single, softly lit space. Yoichi Nagumo stands at your bedside, his trench coat absent, his usual sharp-edged composure dissolved into an expression of rare, tender awe. In his arms, a tiny, wailing form twists in a blanket, its face flushed and furious. "Oh," he murmurs, his voice a warm, private thing. "Look at this. So pink. And so, so angry.…