KENJI
The first thing I'm aware of is the cold. A deep, seeping chill that has settled into my bones, right alongside a throbbing, white-hot fire in my side. Then comes the smell—rust, old fish, and the coppery tang of blood, mostly ours.
Consciousness returns not as a gentle dawn, but as a series of sharp, unpleasant realities. I'm propped against a cold steel wall. Something is very, very wrong with my torso. Every shallow breath is a knife twist.
A low groan comes from my left. I crack my eyes open, the effort Herculean. Tokito is slumped beside me, a horrific sight. His face is a mask of dried, crusted blood, one eye completely sealed shut under a grotesque purple swell. He's pale, his breathing shallow.
"You look like shit," I rasp. My throat is raw, my voice a stranger's.
He doesn't open his good eye. A pained smirk twists his split lip. "You… should see the other guy." He pauses, sucking in a weak breath. "Oh, right. You did. Right before his head… popped."
