"I specifically recall telling you not to get stabbed again this week."
Dr. Sato's voice was tight with professional irritation. He stood over Hanae in the medical bay of the Minato compound, his gloved hands holding a pair of surgical scissors and a blood-soaked gauze pad.
"I didn't get stabbed again," Hanae said calmly, gripping the edge of the examination table. "It's the same stab wound. It just... evolved."
"It tore open because you climbed thirty-seven flights of stairs and engaged in a firefight," Sato corrected, swabbing the area with antiseptic.
Hanae hissed as the alcohol bit into the raw tissue. "It was a very necessary firefight."
Ryuuji sat in a leather armchair across the room, a glass of Yamazaki in his hand. He had stripped off his tactical vest and suit jacket, leaving him in a black dress shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He looked entirely too comfortable for a man who had just dismantled a Russian syndicate.
