A few minutes passed in silence.
The lights were still painfully bright, washing the room in sterile white, but neither of them mentioned it. Izana sat on the edge of the bed, back straight but shoulders tense, one hand holding the wad of toilet paper to his nose. Leah sat in the armchair beside him, angled just enough to watch without staring.
The air between them felt fragile. Like one wrong word would shatter it.
"…Did it stop?" Leah asked quietly.
Izana hesitated before answering. Slowly, he pulled the toilet paper away from his nose and glanced downward. The bleeding had nearly ceased—only a faint smear of red remained.
"It's fine," he said, voice low.
Leah noticed anyway.
Blood had dried along the corner of his mouth, faint streaks tracing his chin. It was subtle, but enough. Before she could comment, Izana pressed the paper back against his nose, as if putting distance between them and the sight.
Leah stood.
"I'll be right back," she said gently.
Izana looked up at her—not directly, never directly—but his head turned toward her voice. He didn't respond. He just listened as she left the room.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Leah made her way downstairs, moving quietly through the mansion. The halls were too large, too empty, echoing with every step. She reached the kitchen and filled a bowl with warm water, grabbing a clean cloth from the drawer.
Just as she turned to leave, a sharp pain struck her lower abdomen.
She froze.
Her breath hitched as she pressed a hand against herself, fingers digging lightly into the fabric of her clothes. The pain pulsed—deep, insistent, not sharp enough to stop her entirely, but heavy enough to make her dizzy.
"…Great," she muttered under her breath.
She leaned against the counter for a moment, waiting for it to pass.
It didn't.
She thought of Izana, sitting alone in his room, bleeding, exhausted. She had told him she would come back.
With a quiet sigh, she straightened, lifted the bowl, and pushed through the pain.
Each step back upstairs felt heavier than the last.
By the time she reached Izana's door, her breathing was uneven.
Izana sensed it immediately.
He lifted his head the moment the door opened. He didn't need to see her face to know something was off. Her steps were slower. Careful. Her breathing didn't match her pace.
She crossed the room and sat back down in the armchair, setting the bowl and cloth on her lap.
Before she could speak, Izana asked, "What's wrong."
Leah blinked. "What?"
"You're hurt," he said flatly.
Her eyes widened. "I—no. I'm fine."
The answer came too fast.
Izana didn't like that.
"Where," he asked, voice calm but unyielding.
She hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of the bowl. "It's nothing. Really."
His jaw clenched. "Leah."
The way he said her name—low, deliberate—made it clear he wasn't letting this go.
She exhaled slowly. "…It's just a woman thing."
There was a pause.
Then Izana nodded once.
"I see."
He pushed himself to his feet, movements slow and unsteady. Leah straightened in her chair, concern flickering across her face.
"Where are you going?" she asked, uncertain.
He didn't answer.
He walked into the ensuite bathroom, the door left partially open. Leah listened as he opened the cabinet beneath the sink. The faint clink of glass echoed through the quiet room.
Inside the cabinet were rows of medication bottles. Too many. Each labeled carefully. Each one meant for him.
Izana scanned them methodically, fingers brushing past bottles he knew by heart. Pain suppressants. Stabilizers. Emergency injections.
He stopped at one.
A small, amber bottle.
He picked it up and stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.
This one was important.
It was meant for severe heart pain—moments when the curse tightened too close, when breathing became optional and survival uncertain. It wasn't meant to be wasted.
He closed the cabinet and walked back into the bedroom.
Leah looked up as he approached, confusion written plainly across her face. He sat back down on the bed, closer than before, though still careful not to touch her.
He held the bottle out toward her.
"You can have this."
Leah's eyes dropped to it instantly.
Her breath caught.
"Izana… no," she said softly. "That's yours. I recognize it."
"You need it," he replied.
She shook her head quickly. "I'm fine. It'll pass. You shouldn't—this is important. You can't just give this to me."
He frowned.
"I'll get more tomorrow," he said. "I don't need it right now."
"That's not the point," she insisted. "You shouldn't waste your medication on me."
That word—waste—set something off in him.
Without another word, he leaned forward and placed the bottle on her lap, right beside the bowl of water.
"I said take it."
Leah stared at it, stunned.
"Izana—."
"Enough," he said quietly.
She hesitated, fingers hovering over the bottle but not touching it.
"I don't understand," she whispered. "Why would you do this?"
He didn't answer.
Because he didn't have one that wouldn't damn him.
After a moment, she finally picked up the bottle, her grip careful, almost reverent. "…Thank you," she said softly.
Something twisted violently in Izana's chest.
The ache returned—stronger this time.
He stiffened.
Heat surged through his veins, sharp and punishing, as the curse reacted instantly. His breath caught, fingers curling into the mattress as pain radiated outward from his heart.
He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth.
Leah noticed immediately. "Izana—?"
"Don't," he snapped, forcing the word out. "I'm fine."
The lie burned.
The curse pulsed again, furious, as if punishing him for the act he had just committed.
Kindness.
He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold, jaw locked tight as the pain slowly receded, leaving behind a dull, searing reminder.
Leah watched him, holding the bottle in her hands, utterly unaware that the very thing she was grateful for was tearing him apart from the inside.
And Izana, once again, chose silence.
Because some things—
no matter how badly they hurt—
were worth enduring alone.