The clinic was smaller than Kuzuha had expected.
He stood at the back of the narrow waiting room, shoulder pressed against a shelf of medical texts so old the spines had cracked into leather fossils, and tried not to breathe too deeply. The air was antiseptic and something underneath—bandages, maybe, or the ghost of old blood that no amount of bleach could scrub away. Arata's clinic didn't look like much from the outside. A door wedged between a convenience store and a closed-down ramen shop, the sign faded to near-illegibility. But inside, the equipment was expensive. Imported. The kind of machinery that cost more than Kuzuha's car.
Rou stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight. Lauren had claimed the only actual chair, legs crossed, phone in hand but screen dark. Shō leaned against the opposite wall, watching the door like he expected someone to burst through it at any moment. None of them had said why they were here. None of them had to.
Kuzuha watched Akira.
The ex-agent stood near the examination rooms, close enough to Seraph that their shoulders brushed with every breath. Akira's hand had found the hem of Seraph's sleeve—not gripping, not quite. Just holding. A pinch of fabric between thumb and forefinger, small and unconscious and so painfully vulnerable that Kuzuha had to look away.
Akira's face was calm. Composed. The mask was back, smooth and professional, the same smile he wore during streams when chat got too wild. But the hand on Seraph's sleeve was the truth. And the way he leaned, just slightly, toward the silver-haired man's warmth.
Kanato stood by the reception desk, chatting with Arata like they were old friends catching up over coffee. His voice was light, easy, the former mafia heir in full social mode. But Kuzuha saw how Kanato's eyes kept flicking to Akira. Every few seconds. A check-in that never stopped.
"You know," Arata said, glancing up from a clipboard, "I usually don't get groups this size for a routine checkup." He was young—younger than Kuzuha had imagined, maybe late twenties, with sharp features and dark hair tied back in a loose ponytail. His white coat was rumpled, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms scattered with faint burn scars. "Especially not with an audience."
"Consider it moral support," Kanato said, smile easy.
Arata's gaze slid to Akira. Held. Something flickered in his eyes—assessment, maybe, or recognition of a certain kind of damage. Then he looked at Kanato, and his expression shifted. Cooler. More guarded.
Kuzuha caught it. The slight tension in Arata's shoulders. The way his hand stilled on the clipboard.
*He thinks Kanato and Hibari are the ones who hurt Akira.*
The thought landed cold in Kuzuha's chest. He watched Arata's eyes track across the room—to Hibari, who was grinning at something on his phone, all puppy energy and loud presence. To Kanato, with his easy smile and his expensive clothes and the way he carried himself like someone used to getting what he wanted.
*Rich kids can do some crazy stuff and get away with it,* the doctor's expression seemed to say. *And you two look like you've never been told no in your lives.*
Kuzuha almost laughed. Almost.
"We'll start one by one," Arata said, voice carefully neutral. He gestured toward the first examination room. "Who wants to go first?"
Silence.
Hibari looked up from his phone. "I'll go." Pocketed the device, stretched his arms over his head with a crack of joints. "Might as well get it over with.
The examination room was small, barely large enough for the table and a single stool, the walls a pale beige that had seen too many years of fluorescent light. Hibari stepped inside with the easy confidence of someone who had never learned to be afraid of needles or white coats, and Kuzuha watched from the doorway—not quite invited, not quite turned away—as Arata pulled on a pair of gloves with a snap that echoed off the linoleum.
"Strip down to your underwear," Arata said, voice flat, professional. "You can leave your socks on if you want."
Hibari grinned, already reaching for the hem of his shirt. "Romantic. You take all your dates here?"
Arata didn't laugh. His eyes tracked across Hibari's body as the shirt came off—the solid muscle of his shoulders, the faint scars that mapped old fights across his ribs, the bruise on his hip that was still healing. Kuzuha saw Arata's jaw tighten. Saw the doctor's gaze flick toward the door, toward the waiting room where Kanato was no doubt still chatting with that easy smile.
He thinks they hurt him, Kuzuha thought again. He thinks all of them are abusers.
Hibari sat on the exam table, the paper crinkling under his weight. "So what are we checking for? I'm healthy as a horse."
"Heart rate, blood pressure, reflexes. Basic blood work. I'll palpate your abdomen and check your joints for flexibility and damage." Arata picked up a stethoscope, the metal cold against his palm. "You'll feel some pressure. Tell me if anything hurts."
"I'm tough." Hibari winked. "I can take it."
Kuzuha leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and watched. The exam was quick—efficient, professional. Arata moved with the economy of someone who had done this a thousand times, pressing fingers into Hibari's stomach, feeling for anything wrong, asking him to breathe deep. Hibari chatted through it, talking about the weather and the traffic and how the ramen place near Nijisanji had gotten a health inspection warning last week. Arata didn't respond, but his shoulders loosened, just slightly, by the time he was done.
"You're in good shape," Arata said, pulling off his gloves. "Slightly elevated heart rate, but that could be nerves or caffeine. Drink more water. Less energy drinks."
"See? Healthy as a horse." Hibari hopped off the table, stretching his arms over his head. "You're not so scary after all, doc."
Arata didn't smile, but something in his eyes softened. "Send the next one in."
Hibari grinned at Kuzuha as he grabbed his shirt. "Your turn, pretty boy."
---
Kanato went next.
He stripped with the practiced ease of someone who had been examined by private doctors his whole life, his body carrying the marks of a different kind of violence—a thin scar across his ribs, the faded print of a bullet graze on his shoulder. Arata's gloved hands found each scar, pressed, measured. Kanato didn't flinch. Didn't explain. He answered the doctor's questions with the same easy charm he used on stream, deflecting every attempt at conversation about his past with a joke.
"You've had multiple fractures in your left hand," Arata said, turning Kanato's palm over. "Healed poorly. Does it still hurt?"
"Only when I punch things." Kanato smiled. "I try not to do that anymore."
Arata's gaze lingered. "You should see a specialist. There's nerve damage here that could get worse over time."
"I'll add it to the list."
---
Seraph was silent through his exam.
He stripped without being asked, his body a map of old violence—burn scars along his forearms, a thick line of raised tissue across his chest where something sharp had cut deep, puckered circles on his back that Kuzuha recognized as the marks of electrical torture. Arata's hands stilled when he saw them. His breath caught, just once, before he continued.
No one spoke.
Seraph's eyes were fixed on a point on the wall, his jaw tight, his hands resting on his thighs with the stillness of a man who had learned to endure. He answered every question in monosyllables. His body was rigid under the doctor's touch, but he didn't pull away.
When it was over, Seraph dressed without a word and walked out of the room. Kuzuha saw Akira waiting in the hallway, his hand already reaching for Seraph's sleeve. Seraph let him hold it.
---
Kuzuha's own exam was uneventful. Rou, Lauren, and Shō followed, each taking their turn in the small room, each emerging with a clipboard and a slip of paper with blood test instructions. The doctor was professional, efficient, and said nothing about the scars that some of them carried. Kuzuha caught Arata's eyes flicking toward the door every few minutes, toward the hallway where Akira was waiting.
He knows who's left, Kuzuha thought. He's been waiting for this one.
---
"Akira." Arata's voice was softer now, stripped of the clinical flatness he had used with the others. He stood in the doorway of the waiting room, his white coat rumpled, his hands empty. "I have a different setup for you. Come with me."
Akira's hand tightened on Seraph's sleeve. His face was calm—that mask back in place, smooth and professional—but Kuzuha could see the tremor in his jaw, the way his breathing had gone shallow.
"I can do it," Akira said. Quiet. Almost to himself.
"I know you can." Arata didn't push. "But I've set up the couch in the corner. It's more comfortable. Less... clinical. You can have whoever you want with you."
Akira's gaze slid to Seraph. To Hibari, who had moved closer without being asked. To Kanato, still standing by the reception desk, watching with those amber eyes that missed nothing.
"Seraph," Akira said. "And Hibari."
Arata nodded. "Anyone else?"
Akira shook his head.
Kuzuha watched them go—Seraph walking at Akira's side, his hand resting lightly on the small of Akira's back. Hibari trailing behind, his energy dimmed to something quieter, something watchful. Kanato stayed in the waiting room, but Kuzuha saw how his fists were clenched at his sides.
---
The corner of the clinic was dimmer than the rest of the room, a single lamp casting warm light over a worn leather couch that had seen better decades. Akira sat on the edge of it, his hands gripping his knees, his shoulders hunched forward as if he could make himself smaller. Seraph settled behind him on the couch, his legs bracketing Akira's hips, his arms coming around to rest on Akira's waist.
Hibari pulled a chair close. Sat. Leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on Arata.
"I'm going to need you to take off your shirt and pants," Arata said gently. "You can keep your underwear on. I'll work around it."
Akira's hands moved to the hem of his shirt before Arata finished speaking. He pulled it over his head in one motion, his movements mechanical, rehearsed. The shirt fell to the floor. His pants followed. He sat in his boxers, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on a point on the wall.
Kuzuha watched from a distance—he and the others had been asked to wait in the far corner of the waiting room, but they could still see. Rou had turned his back, pretending to study a poster on the wall. Lauren had his phone out, but the screen was dark. Shō was watching, his face unreadable.
Arata's hands moved slowly. He started at Akira's shoulders, pressing into the muscle, feeling for knots and tension. Akira flinched when Arata's fingers found a hard ridge of scar tissue near his left collarbone, and Seraph's arms tightened around him.
"I'm here," Seraph murmured, his mouth close to Akira's ear. "You're safe. This is just a checkup. Nobody's going to hurt you."
Akira's breath Shuddered. "I know."
Arata worked his way down Akira's back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine, pausing at each scar. Kuzuha saw the doctor's face shift—not disgust, not pity, but something heavier. Recognition, maybe. The weight of knowing what kind of violence left marks like these.
"Flexibility test," Arata said. "I need you to lift your arms above your head. As high as you can."
Akira obeyed. His arms rose, but they stopped short of full extension, and a low hiss escaped his teeth as the tendons in his shoulders pulled taut.
"Okay," Arata said. "That's enough. Lower slowly."
He moved to Akira's hips, pressing into the joints, testing the range of motion. Akira cried out when Arata's thumb found a spot deep in his left hip—a sharp, bitten-off sound that made Rou flinch across the room. Lauren's phone screen lit up as he unlocked it, then went dark again.
"Sorry," Arata said, easing off. "I know that hurts. Your hip has significant scar tissue. I can prescribe physical therapy exercises if you want to increase mobility."
Akira nodded, his jaw tight.
Hibari leaned forward, his hand finding Akira's knee. "You're doing great, baby. Almost done."
Seraph's arms tightened again. His thumb found the edge of the incubus sigil on Akira's lower stomach, pressing gently against the fabric of his boxers. Akira gasped, his body jerking involuntarily, his hands flying to grip Seraph's shirt.
"I need to examine the sigil and tail," Arata said, his voice steady. "I'll ask Seraph to help, since you're more comfortable with him."
Seraph's thumb pressed harder. Akira's breath hitched, and Kuzuha saw the skin beneath Seraph's finger begin to glow—a faint, warm light that pulsed like a heartbeat. Akira's body arched, a sound caught between a gasp and a moan escaping his throat, and then the tail appeared.
It coiled out from the base of Akira's spine, dark and sleek, its tip curling instinctively around Seraph's wrist. Akira's face was flushed, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands gripping Seraph's shirt so hard the fabric was twisting.
"Shh," Seraph murmured. "You're okay. You're okay."
Kuzuha heard Rou swear under his breath. Lauren had turned away, his hand over his mouth. Shō was frozen, his eyes wide.
Arata stepped closer, his gloved hand reaching for the tail. The moment his fingers touched it, Akira's breath caught in a sharp, desperate sound—half gasp, half moan—and Kuzuha felt heat rise to his own face.
It's just a medical exam, he told himself. It's not—it's not what it sounds like.
But Akira's voice, when it came, was raw and trembling. "Please—please be careful—"
"I will," Arata said softly. "I promise. This will only take a moment."
His fingers traced the length of the tail, feeling for any abnormalities, any tenderness. Each touch made Akira's breath hitch, his body tensing and relaxing in waves. Seraph's hand on his sigil, still pressing, still grounding. Hibari's hand on his knee, thumb tracing soothing circles.
Kuzuha watched Akira's face. The way his lips parted. The way his eyes fluttered, half-lidded, as if he were floating somewhere far away. The way his body responded to the touch of someone he trusted, even while a stranger examined him.
He's not enjoying this, Kuzuha thought. He's enduring it.
But the sounds that spilled from Akira's throat were the kind that could be easily misunderstood.
"Almost done," Arata said, withdrawing his hand. "You can let the tail retreat if you want. Just breathe."
Akira's body sagged. The tail curled tighter around Seraph's wrist, then slowly disappeared back into his spine. A shaky exhale. A moment of stillness.
And then a sound that broke the silence—a small, distressed whimper that was nearly a sob. Akira's face crumpled. He turned, pressing his forehead against Seraph's neck, his shoulders shaking.
"That's enough," Seraph said, his voice quiet but firm. His hand moved from Akira's sigil to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. "He's done."
Hibari stood, slipping his jacket off and draping it over Akira's bare shoulders. "I'll take it from here, doc." He turned to Arata, his voice dropping to something less playful. "What else do you need from him?"
Arata shook his head. "That's all for the physical exam. I'll have the results in two weeks, along with the blood work."
Kuzuha watched as Seraph pulled Akira closer, tilting his face up. There was no hesitation. His lips met Akira's in a kiss that was slow and deep, and even from across the room, Kuzuha could see the way Akira melted into it, his body relaxing, the tension draining from his shoulders.
Energy feeding, Kuzuha realized. He's giving him energy.
Akira's hand came up to cup Seraph's jaw, and for a long moment, they stayed like that—mouths moving together, breath mingling, until Akira let out another sound, softer this time, almost content. The tail flickered back into existence for just a moment, curling around Seraph's arm, before disappearing again.
Kanato cleared his throat.
It was loud, deliberate, cutting through the room like a blade. Kuzuha looked up to see Kanato pulling a folded chair from the corner, opening it with a sharp click, and positioning it directly in front of the couch—blocking the view of Akira and Seraph with his own back.
"That's enough." Kanato's voice was calm. Easy. But when he turned his head, just barely, Kuzuha saw the look in his amber eyes.
It was a warning.
You've seen too much, that look said. Look away.
Kuzuha looked away. So did Rou. So did Lauren and Shō, turning toward the window, toward the posters on the wall, toward anything that wasn't the couch.
Behind them, the sounds continued—soft, wet, intimate. Akira's breath, hitching and then calming. Seraph's low murmur, too quiet to make out the words. A moment of silence, and then Akira's voice, small and raw: "Thank you."
---
After the feeding, Akira dressed in silence. His hands shook as he pulled his shirt over his head, and Hibari helped him with the buttons, his fingers gentle and steady. The tail was gone. The sigil had faded to a faint, warm glow beneath the fabric.
Arata waited until Akira was fully dressed before he spoke. "I know this was hard," he said, his voice gentler than it had been all day. "You did well."
Akira looked at him, and for just a moment, his mask slipped. There was something raw in his eyes—gratitude, maybe, or exhaustion. "Thank you, Arata-san."
Arata hesitated. Then, before he could stop himself, he reached out and placed a hand on the top of Akira's head, a brief, paternal pat. "Take care of yourself." His voice was low, meant only for Akira. "Be careful with intimacy, especially with your condition. Your body is more fragile than you think."
Akira's eyes widened, but he nodded.
Arata watched them leave—Kanato first, then Hibari with his arm around Akira's shoulders, then Seraph, walking close enough to brush against Akira with every step. He watched Kanato's friends follow, their faces drawn, their silence heavy.
And Arata thought about the file in his hands. The thick medical file that Kanato had handed him before the exam, the one that detailed years of government-sanctioned abuse, the scars and the surgeries and the drugs. He thought about a twenty-year-old boy, bleeding internally, being told he was too expensive to keep. A twenty-one-year-old boy escaping with nothing but his body and the scars to prove it.
He was younger than me, Arata thought. He went through all of that before he was twenty-one.
He looked down at Akira's file again, and felt something cold settle in his chest.
---
Outside, the air was thick with humidity, the gray sky threatening rain. Kanato stretched his arms overhead and glanced at his phone. "There's a mall nearby," he said casually. "Seraph said he's hungry."
"I did not say that," Seraph said, but his hand was already on Akira's back, steering him toward the parking lot.
Rou laughed, the sound surprising them all. "I could eat. There's a crepe place I saw on the way in."
"I want ramen," Hibari said, bouncing on his heels. "There's this shop that does a spicy tonkotsu that'll change your life."
"Your standards are low," Kanato said.
"Your standards are expensive." Hibari grinned. "Different things."
They walked to the mall in a loose formation—Kanato leading, Seraph and Akira in the middle, Hibari beside them, Kanato's friends bringing up the rear. Kuzuha watched Akira's shoulders slowly untensing as they moved away from the clinic. Watched the mask slip back into place, then crack again when Hibari leaned down to whisper something in Akira's ear, making him laugh.
It was a small sound. Unexpected. It made Kuzuha's chest ache.
The food court was loud, the fluorescent lights harsh, the smell of frying oil mixing with the sweetness of crepes and bubble tea. The group dispersed—Kanato heading for a coffee stand, Seraph drifting toward a stall that sold okonomiyaki, the others spreading out to various counters. Kuzuha found himself at a bubble tea stand with Rou and Lauren, watching as Hibari and Akira stopped in front of a cream puff shop near the restrooms.
They were close. Hibari's arm draped over Akira's shoulders, his head bent to speak directly into Akira's ear. Their voices carried just far enough for Kuzuha to hear.
"...both look good," Akira was saying, his brow furrowed. "But the minimum is three per pack, so I'd have to buy six, and I can't eat six cream puffs."
"Then keep the rest for later," Hibari said.
"They won't taste as good cold."
Hibari's laugh was a warm, rolling sound. "You're really thinking about this, aren't you?"
"It's important."
Kuzuha saw Hibari lean down, his lips brushing Akira's. A quick, public kiss, and Akira froze, his face flushing a deep pink. Before he could pull away, Hibari was already talking again. "Here's the plan. You buy the pack you like. I'll buy the other flavor. Then we trade. I'll eat whatever's left. Sound good?"
Akira's face lit up. "Honto?!"
"Mm-hmm." Hibari's grin was wide, his eyes warm.
They stepped up to the counter together, Akira bent over the menu, pointing at flavors, saying "Kore mecha oshiso janai? Kondo mata kao" in an excited rush. Hibari stood behind him, already pulling out his card, paying before Akira even noticed.
When the cream puffs were ready, Hibari took both packs and handed them to Akira. "For you."
"Oi—I can pay—"
"Too late."
Akira's protest died in his throat, replaced by a small, embarrassed smile. "Arigatou."
They walked back to the table, Akira holding the two packs like they were treasures. Kuzuha watched him open one, pull out a cream puff, inspect it, then switch it for one from the other pack. He watched Akira close the boxes carefully, making sure they looked unopened, before holding one pack out to Hibari.
"Here."
Hibari took it, his smile not fading. "Thanks, Akira."
They sat down as Kanato and Seraph returned with drinks, and Kuzuha saw Akira hold out the last cream puff to Seraph before he could even sit. "Seraph, you have to try this. It's so good."
Seraph's eyes widened, just slightly, and he took the cream puff. Kanato leaned over and stole a bite from Hibari's pack before Hibari could stop him, and the table dissolved into laughter and mock arguments.
---
Later that night, Kuzuha sat in front of his computer screen, the Discord call open, the faces of Rou, Lauren, and Shō lit by the glow of their monitors. They had all gathered—Kanato's friends, checking in, as they always did after a day like this.
"He seems okay," Rou said, his voice careful. "Better than I expected, honestly."
"Hibari always knows how to cheer him up," Kanato's voice crackled through the call. Kuzuha could see him on the camera, his hair still damp from a shower. "He makes everything warmer."
There was a pause.
"Kanato," Kuzuha said, "back at the clinic—after Akira's checkup—you handed something to Arata. A folder."
The silence in the Discord was heavy.
Kanato's expression flickered. Then he sighed, leaning back in his chair. "That was Akira's medical file from SPIA."
"What?" Lauren's voice was sharp.
Kanato's eyes didn't meet the camera. "When Akira escaped, he took his own file and Seraph's. Seraph burned his. But Akira couldn't bring himself to destroy his own." Kanato paused, his jaw tightening. "He was raised in SPIA. He has no birth certificate, no family outside the organization. That file is the only proof he existed before he became a vtuber. The only witness to what he survived."
Kuzuha's throat tightened.
"He handed it to me before we left for the clinic," Kanato continued. "Said it might help Arata with the treatment plan. He couldn't bring himself to destroy it. But he also couldn't bring himself to talk about what's in it."
"So you gave it to the doctor," Rou said quietly.
"Yeah." Kanato's voice was barely a whisper. "I think—subconsciously—he kept it because he knew how bad his body was. He knew he'd need a doctor to see it one day. He just couldn't be the one to tell that story."
Kuzuha stared at his screen, at Kanato's tired face, at the way his hands were clasped on the desk in front of him.
In the other room, Akira was asleep on the couch, his head resting on Hibari's chest, one hand loosely gripping Seraph's sleeve. Seraph was on the floor, legs crossed, phone in hand, his Minecraft character building something blocky and complicated on screen. The sound of pickaxes and falling gravel was the only noise in the room.
Kanato looked at them from the doorway, and Kuzuha saw his expression soften.
"He's okay," Kanato said, more to himself than to the camera. "We'll keep him okay."
---
On the couch, Akira shifted in his sleep. His hand found Hibari's, fingers threading together. His breath evened out, slow and deep, the tension of the day finally leaving his body.
Kuzuha watched through the screen, and he thought about files and scars and the weight of survival. He thought about a boy who had no proof he existed except a record of his pain, and a family who would carry that proof for him now.
The Minecraft sounds continued. The night stretched on.
And Akira slept, held by the people who would never let him be erased.