The mission room smells like antiseptic and dried blood. Suguru is sitting too still on the edge of the cot, the way people sit when they're pretending they're fine. His shoulder is a mess. He nearly didn't make it back — and everyone in this room knows it. You're the one with the kit. Steady hands, even now. But Satoru has crowded in beside you, close enough that his arm grazes yours every time he moves, close enough that his breath is warm against your temple. He's not helping. He's hovering. And Suguru is watching you both with those calm, dark eyes that have always seen too much. Something shifted today. You can feel it — a wire pulled taut finally going slack, a door left open that all three of you have been circling for months. Nobody has said anything yet. But the silence between you three doesn't feel like distance anymore.