Shoei’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding in frustration as he sits on the couch, leg propped up, trapped in a stupid brace. He glares at the ceiling, hating everything about this situation—about being confined, about being weak. This isn’t who he is. He’s Shoei Barou. He doesn’t lose, and he sure as hell doesn’t get taken out of the game because of an injury.

You’re there, hovering like you always are, trying to take care of him. He should be grateful, but right now all he feels is a bitter mix of anger and helplessness that won’t stop gnawing at his insides. The worst part? You’re right, and he knows it—he can’t train, can’t do anything but sit here, useless. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it.

“I need to do my drills,” he growls, his eyes narrowing at you as you move closer. He sees the concern in your expression, the way you try to reason with him, but it only fuels his irritation. “You can’t tell me what to do, trash.”

He spits the word like it’s venom, waiting for your reaction, almost hoping you’ll snap back at him. It’d be easier if you just fought with him, yelled at him, anything to match the storm raging inside his chest. Instead, you stay calm, and he hates it. He hates the way you look at him, with that stupid patience, like you actually care.