Utaha's face was streaked with dust, strands of hair clinging to her skin.
Yami uncapped a bottle of water, soaked a towel, and without hesitation lifted her hair with one hand. His touch was careful, almost casual, as he began wiping the dirt away.
"—?!"
She froze.
Her left hand was perfectly capable of doing this herself. She knew it. He knew it.
But once his hand moved, once that warmth brushed against her cheek, the words to protest simply wouldn't leave her lips.
…This feeling. I don't want it to stop.
The towel traced down, brushing her jaw, her neck. When her face was clean, he caught her left hand next, wiping it down with the same gentle precision.
Then, with the same ease, he tore open a packet of bread and pressed it into her palm, setting a bottle of water beside it.
"Eat something. At least enough to quiet your stomach."
"…Oh."
Her nod was small, obedient. She lowered her head and began nibbling in silence.
Meanwhile, Yami took her injured right hand. The shadows curled into the shape of a scalpel, slicing open the makeshift cloth she'd wrapped around the wound.
Blood welled at the split skin along her palm.
"The tiger's mouth split open. I'll treat it. Bear with it."
"Mm."
He poured water over it, rinsing carefully, then splashed disinfectant. The sting flared sharp and raw.
Her shoulders trembled. Her breath caught. But not once did she cry out.
Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on him—on his sharp, serious profile as he worked and a strange warmth spread through her chest, down to her fingertips.
By the time he finished rewrapping her hand, his attention moved to her right leg. The cut along her calf still seeped faintly.
"…You'll need to take off the stockings," he said evenly, gesturing to her thigh-highs.
Then, noticing the way her fingers twitched, he added, almost politely:
"Do you want to do it yourself?"
"I—"
Utaha hesitated. Her left hand could manage it. If she wanted, she could do it alone.
But some part of her deeply conflicted, quietly selfish didn't want his hands to pull away just yet.
Her lashes lowered, voice soft.
"…My hands aren't very convenient right now. So… please help me."
Yami's golden eyes flicked down. The skirt hem barely reached her knees, the smooth black fabric disappearing up into shadows he didn't need to imagine.
Not stockings, but pantyhose.
Which meant, if they were to come off, they had to be peeled away from the waist down.
He exhaled slowly.
"…These aren't exactly easy."
The silence between them thickened.
"It doesn't matter… my hands can't manage it."
Kasumigaoka Utaha turned her face slightly, clutching the bread in her left hand. Sitting like this was already inconvenient enough, but she kept her composure.
"Fine."
Hearing that, Yami Tsukishiro exhaled softly.
He crouched down, removed her shoes, and deliberately kept his eyes level with her face instead of glancing down. Then, with both hands, he reached out.
"..."
Utaha didn't dare meet his gaze. Her face was already flushed red just from the weight of his stare.
Her heartbeat quickened, and she could clearly feel the warmth of his palms brushing against her through the hem of her skirt, sliding lightly up to her waist.
A cool sensation followed as the black stockings slipped away in one smooth motion.
"What should I do with these?" Yami asked, holding the still-warm fabric in his hand.
"Wh-whatever…! Whatever you like!" Utaha stammered, her imagination running wild. She couldn't help but assume he was thinking something indecent.
"Throw them away. After all, the clothes in here aren't real."
Without hesitation, he tossed them aside.
Only then did Utaha realize—right, this outfit was just part of the virtual world. She had been overthinking it the entire time.
Shame burned in her chest. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into a crack in the ground and disappear.
"Do you want me to apply pressure to your leg? I still need to treat your injury," Yami said evenly.
"Huh?" For a moment, Utaha didn't understand. But then she followed his line of sight downward and froze. The way her leg was lifted left her dangerously exposed.
Her cheeks flared crimson. She quickly pressed down the hem of her skirt with her free hand. "I-it's fine like this!"
"Good." Yami nodded and began cleaning and dressing the wound on her calf.
He didn't say anything about it, but whether by accident or intent, Utaha shifted slightly now and then, her skirt brushing upward just enough to reveal the pale shimmer of her thighs.
The treatment itself was efficient. Soon, her wound was properly wrapped.
"Do you prefer I carry you on my back, or hold you in my arms?" Yami asked at last.
Walking was impossible for her now, so he left the choice to her.
"…Whichever's easier for you," she murmured. She was the one being helped—how could she possibly demand more?
"Then, I'll carry you like this."
He slid his arms under her knees and back, lifting her in a flawless princess carry. Utaha's arms instinctively wound around his neck, steadying herself.
"..."
From this angle, looking up at his face, her heartbeat raced out of control again.
"Hold on tight. We're leaving."
Yami didn't dwell on her reaction. He sim Iply opened the door of shadows, stepping forward.
That night was anything but peaceful.
Because in the span of just a few hours, two new emergency announcements echoed through the air:
[The fourth wave of mutant beasts is coming!]
[The fifth wave of mutant beasts is coming!]
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