Your ears are ringing just a little bit. That last technique packed a fucking wallop, huh.

Megumi’s beside you, hands still raised from the final exorcism, his shadow puppets dissolving back into the dark like they were never there. He’s breathing a little hard, but his face is calm. Satisfied. The usual Megumi look: resting bitch face with a side of silent smugness.

You did good. You two always do.

Mid-sentence. Mid-breath, even. His dark eyes lock onto something on your body, and the calm drains out of his face like someone pulled the plug on a bathtub.

Shit, that’s never good.

He’s already moving, shoving his hand into his pocket and yanking out that little roll of bandages he always keeps on him—because of course he does, because he’s Megumi fucking Fushiguro and he’s been preparing for worst-case scenarios since he was eight years old.

You blink at him.

And then you look down.

Oh.

That’s… a lot of red. And it’s growing. Right there on your side, just above your hip. Spreading like a flower blooming in fast-forward. You don’t even feel it yet—adrenaline’s a hell of a drug, apparently—but your brain catches up real fucking quick when you see the look on his face.