take the pain away

The damn hospital. Ruìsāng wouldn't be caught dead there. While he acknowledged the girl's likely good intentions, remorse didn't touch him as he turned the corner, distancing himself rom her. Struggling, he nearly collided with the wall, desperate to escape any well-meaning interference.

Each step sent agony through his body, fatigue and dizziness threatening to halt his escape. The world began to blur at the edges, vision flickering intermittently. His rhythmic footsteps synced with his throbbing heartbeat, each breath a laborious struggle in the thick air.

The world blurred, a disorienting haze, simultaneously too distant and oppressively close. Walls converged, tightening like a vise. And finally, a sudden loss of balance sent him sprawling to the ground.

Instinctively, he reached out, his hands making a desperate attempt to break the fall. The impact jarred through his body, radiating a searing pain from his right hand. His arm, already weakened and wounded, protested with a surge of agony as he crumpled to the ground. Clutching his injured arm, he felt the intensity of the pain magnify.

Pushing himself away from the ground, his back against the wall, he realised the Pokéball had fallen from his pocket. Reaching out, he summoned Lìeyàn, who appeared in astonishment. Tears welled in the Mawile's eyes as she stood before him, uncertain of what to do.

His chest was nearly bare, his shirt torn to shreds both front and back, exposing claw marks that traced a path from collarbone to heart. Four dark, dot-like scars encircled his heart, exuding an eerie aura as if carrying a dark curse. His right hand was not merely scratched but torn and mangled, blood oozing from it.

Attempting to push himself up, he struggled to find the strength, clinging desperately to the wall to stay upright. The desperate cries of his Mawile urged him to take action, or he'd die here.

There was one person he could call.

He called Victor with difficulty using his left hand while bracing himself with his left elbow. Somewhere during the call, he sank to the ground again, using Mawile's jaw to keep his arm up and apply pressure as instructed. Trying to answer questions in short, steady breaths, his vision blurred, and he felt on the verge of either vomiting or falling asleep as soon as he could stop talking.

Victor persisted with questions, and as he neared, Ruìsāng closed the call and dropped his phone. Leaning his weight against Mawile, he slowly sank away, blood dripping from her jaws as if she were the one who had harmed him.

As the adrenaline dissipated, Ruìsāng felt the true weight of his injuries. The initial surge of energy that had masked the pain was fading, leaving behind a persistent, throbbing ache. Each heartbeat sent shooting waves of pain through his right hand. Fatigue, both physical and mental, settled in like a heavy fog.

After dropping the phone, he became acutely aware of the cold sweat on his forehead. His vision wavered at the edges, and a cold shiver ran down his spine. The Mawile, still by his side, looked up at him with concern. His breaths, once hurried, became measured. Then, the world faded.

Tears welled in the pink eyes of the Mawile as she gazed up at a stranger. Her jaws were still clamped tight against her owner's arm, a dutiful effort to keep it elevated, as she had understood. Keep him alive. Keep him still. She would stand there until she could no longer stand if he asked it of her.

That's why the request of a stranger nearly triggered a furious attack. The words were foreign to her—Ruìsāng always spoke in a language others did not. Still, she understood. She carefully lowered the blonde man's arm, stepping away from him, pink eyes fixated on the stranger. One wrong move, and she would attack, but for now, she remained helpless without him.

For the first twelve years of his life, Ruìsāng had been powerless. He kept his head low and endured every physical and mental blow that came his way. Nodding obediently, uttering ‘yes sir’ when required—those actions did little to change his circumstances. So, he learned to fight. He acquired his Mawile because he refused to let anyone hurt him or those close to him again. Today, however, marked the first time he felt like the powerless little boy he used to be. He had crowned himself a king, only to find his crown made of thorns.

Fading in and out of consciousness, Ruìsāng felt a disorienting haze in his mind, intensified by the pain and blood loss. He dimly registered his Mawile holding up his arm, and although she eventually let go, he lacked the strength to respond. Flashes of what was happening flickered in his fragmented awareness.

Unaware of how ghastly he looked, with his own red blood staining his arm and chest, and the addition of black, thick, unnatural blood on his chest and chin. In biting off that finger, he inadvertently made it appear as if the black blood oozed from his mouth.

As he stirred, groaning in pain, Ruìsāng attempted to sit up, only to be met with a spinning world and a pulsating ache coursing through his entire being. “Just… there,” he hissed softly, determined to handle his chest himself, despite the overwhelming weakness that gripped him.

Lying down felt like surrendering to vulnerability, which Ruìsāng despised. Every instinct urged him to rise and escape, but the weight of minimal effort pressed him back. A groan, whether born of frustration or pain, escaped him as he reluctantly settled into submission once more.

As the other fucked around with his injured arm, Ruìsāng clenched his jaw against the searing pain, battling to maintain consciousness. His attention wavered, caught between the agony and the need to stay alert, anticipating the arrival of her, the police, an ambulance—anyone.

Victor's hand approached his chest, but Ruìsāng's newly bandaged hand shot out, seizing the man's arm. Pain surged through him at the movement and touch. “No,” he bit out. “She… did something. Don’t touch it,” he hissed, fighting through the agony to articulate his warning. “It’s enough.” He insisted, determined to handle the aftermath himself, somehow.

Victor told him off for using his arm, prompting Ruìsāng to issue a stern warning about avoiding his chest. It seemed straightforward—if Victor refrained from touching his chest, then there was no need for Ruìsāng to cling to his arm. Despite Victor's well-intentioned advice, Ruìsāng staunchly resisted any further intrusion. A boundary was drawn.

Victor asserted that it wasn't enough. However, the subsequent offer elicited a laugh of exasperation from Ruìsāng. “It will have to be enough. I won’t let you. You’ve done enough,” he hissed, leveraging his good hand to push himself back into a sitting position. A sigh escaped him, and he absentmindedly wiped his chin with the back of his hand, as if it would help.

“Thanks for coming.” But now, he’d take care of things himself.