Page 80 of Mercy Written in Blood

"Then you should obtain it before asking others to conceal it."

Ken laughed once, without humour.

"You sound like him."

"I doubt that."

"No. Same annoying way of making everything sound obvious once you've said it."

Renji considered leaving. Instead, he asked, "Who attacked you?"

Ken's expression closed. The change was immediate.

"Don't know."

"You fought them."

"They wore masks."

"That was not my question."

"It's the answer I have."

Renji looked at the blood beneath Ken's nails. The man was tired, grieving and still prepared to lie for Haruki. Loyalty that immediate was rarely bought. It had to be built over time.

"Tell Mr Ishida Jun survived," Ken said.

"You can tell him yourself."

"They won't let me into intensive care yet."

"Then wait."

Ken exhaled.

"Please."

Renji did not answer. He turned towards recovery. Jun's heart rate remained steady. The leg was warm beneath the blankets. Alive. For now.

"I will tell him," Renji said.

Ken nodded.

"Thank you, Doctor."

Haruki was asleep when Renji returned. This time Renji had a reason — he had promised to deliver medical information. That was all.

The room was dim. Only one light remained on above the sink. The monitor cast pale green across Haruki's face. Without consciousness animating him, he looked less formidable. More vulnerable. Renji preferred patients unconscious. They were easier to understand. The body declared its needs without disguise — blood pressure, oxygen saturation, temperature, pain translated into measurable signs. Awake, people concealed themselves. Haruki concealed fear with humour. Guilt with command. Pain with flirtation.

Renji stood beside the bed. He should have left a message with the nurse. There was no need to wake him. Still, he remained.

Haruki's right hand rested outside the blanket. Bruises marked the knuckles. One finger was splinted. Fine cuts covered the skin. Hands used in a fight. Not the hands Renji would have expected from a man who conducted business from a tailored office.

Renji had heard the name Ishida before that night. Everyone in Takamori had. The Family was discussed in lowered voices by people who wanted favours, feared debts or imagined violence behind every closed door. A criminal dynasty, some called them. Protectors, others insisted. Renji had never cared enough to decide. Institutions changed names while power remained. Families rose. Families vanished. Centuries had taught him that reputation was often nothing more than history written by whichever witnesses survived.

Haruki shifted in his sleep. His brow tightened. The monitor climbed. A dream. Or memory.

Renji touched two fingers to his wrist. A pointless gesture — the monitor already gave him the pulse. Haruki's hand turned beneath his. His fingers closed loosely around Renji's.