After a long session of examination—one that stretched far past what felt necessary—Yuri sat atop the cold steel table while Clover finished wrapping his left arm.
She worked close. Too close to be accidental.
Close enough that he could smell the faint citrus of antiseptic mixed with something warmer—soap, maybe. Or comfort. Her fingers were quick, practiced, careful in a way that suggested she'd done this a thousand times… and still cared every time.
Yuri found his gaze drifting to her without meaning to. Not longing. Not desire.
Just… attention.
The way one watches a flame when the room is dark.
"There we go!" Clover chirped, tying off the final wrap with a neat little bow. She leaned back to admire her work, hands on her hips. "All set!"
She glanced up at him, eyes bright. "Miss Selva really banged you up, huh? But I'm super impressed you didn't die. Trust me—that's a major achievement on its own." She nodded enthusiastically, as if awarding him a medal only she could see. "Anisa Selva is an S-rank among the Attack Force. Super-duper strong, you know."
Yuri blinked, the words settling slowly.
"An… S-rank?" he echoed. "What does that mean?"
Clover's face lit up—like she'd been waiting for the question.
"Oh! Okay, so—" She hopped off her stool and spun to face him, lifting a finger. "The Assassins are organized like a tree—branches and all that. First up: the Attack Force."
One finger.
"They're trained strictly for combat. No politics, no research. Just kill efficiency. Only deployed during wars or large-scale operations."
A second finger.
"Then there's us—the Research and Technical Department." She puffed out her chest slightly. "Fancy tech, cybernetics, medical stuff, biological studies…" Her tone softened, almost fond. "We're the ones who make sure everyone else survives long enough to be useful."
A third finger lifted.
This time, her voice dipped. Just a little.
"And then…" She paused, eyes flicking briefly toward the far end of the lab, where the lights hummed a little louder. "…there's the Zenith Empire."
Something tightened in Yuri's chest.
Clover noticed.
She always noticed.
Her playful tone snapped back into place almost instantly. "Weird name, right? 'Empire' makes it sound huge, but there are actually so few of them." She laughed lightly. "But they're different. Like—completely different. They're the only branch made up entirely of S-ranks."
She tapped her chin. "Oh! And there's also the Info Division. Intelligence gathering, infiltration, blending in with civilians—real spy-movie stuff." She grimaced. "Honestly, they scare me more than the fighters."
She finally stopped talking.
Yuri realized he'd been staring.
Not at the structure.
At her.
At how easily the words flowed. How naturally she'd peeled back layers of an organization that had locked him in a white room for a year and a half.
"…Why," he asked slowly, "is it okay for you to be telling me all this?"
Clover froze.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then she smiled.
"Not exactly," she said lightly, waving a hand. "But I trust you not to tattle-tale."
That only confused him more.
"Then why would you…?" He trailed off, struggling to find the right words. "Why tell me any of it?"
She tilted her head, braid sliding forward over her shoulder. The playful smile softened—not vanished, just… thinned.
"I dunno," she said. "Just felt like it, I guess."
She turned back to her instruments, pretending to tidy them. Then glanced over her shoulder again.
This time, her eyes were steady.
Intent.
"Or maybe," she added gently, "it's because I want you to trust me, Yuri."
The room felt quieter after that.
Not silent—the machines still hummed, lights still buzzed—but something had shifted. Like a door left slightly open somewhere deep inside him.
Yuri didn't answer.
But he didn't look away either.