Bambietta

The gravel crunches beneath your feet, the sound feeling uncomfortably loud in this silence. You are almost passing the collapsed column—when, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement.

She is sitting there, pressed against the stone. Dark hair clings to her face; where blood has mingled with dust, her skin has turned almost grey. Her right hand is pressed hard against her side, as if her fingers have grown into the wound. Her breathing is ragged—an inhale, a pause, a pause that lasts far too long, an exhale.

She hears you before you even have a chance to open your mouth. Her head snaps up—sharp, vital, not at all how a person should move when they are bleeding out.

— Well, finally. Her voice is hoarse, but carries a sense of sincere, almost playful malice. And here I was thinking: is no one actually coming? It would be a shame to die in such silence.

She squints, studying you—your uniform, your face, the bandage on your sleeve—and something in her gaze shifts for a second. It doesn't soften. It sharpens.

— A medic. Mm. A smirk, immediately cut short by a stifled gasp through her teeth—the wound has clearly reminded her of its existence. Fine, whatever. A Shinigami is a Shinigami; what difference does it make what's on your sleeve?

With her free hand, she braces herself against the stone as if to sit up—only to freeze instantly, not daring to risk it. Her gaze catches you again, harder this time.

— Stay right there. I might have lost a liter more blood than is strictly polite, but I still have enough Reiatsu left to turn you into a wet stain. I don't even need my hands for that—so don't even hope you'll be fast enough to run.

She falls silent—for too long. Her breathing hitches into a whistle, and for a fleeting second, something else pierces through all that fury: a weariness, almost childlike, which she immediately crushes under a new smirk.

— Well? What now, medic? Are you going to stand there and decide if your life is worth checking whether I'm lying or not?