Survival in Akame ga kill.

Inside one of the dimly lit rooms, where heavy curtains blocked out the morning light and the doors remained tightly shut, a woman sat motionless in the middle of a medical bed.

Her lavender eyes, once soft and filled with quiet warmth, were now dull, listless as they stared ahead at the wall.

She wore a set of loose medical garments, the fabric slightly oversized for her already frail frame. 

Weeks of treatment had healed her external wounds, but the scars left behind told the story of what had happened to her. Her severed arm, now nothing more than a stump wrapped in fresh bandages, had been properly treated through cauterization and surgical sealing. 

The doctors had ensured that no infection took root, and the wound had long since closed.

*Creak*

A soft creak echoed through the silent room as the door opened.

A nurse stepped inside, balancing a tray of warm food in her hands. She was dressed in a simple Revolutionary Army medic uniform, her boots muffled against the wooden floor as she approached.

The moment she entered, her gaze fell upon the untouched tray of food sitting beside the patient's bed, the same one she had brought the day before. 

The contents had gone cold, the once-warm soup now congealed, the bread hardened.

She sighed.

"You're not eating again, huh?" she murmured, setting the new tray down on the nightstand.

"....."

There was no response.

The nurse studied the patient's figure more closely. Her complexion was pale and sickly, her cheeks slightly sunken, her collarbones sharper beneath the loose fabric of her medical clothes. 

Gaunt, malnourished. Dark shadows clung beneath her lifeless lavender eyes, clear evidence of exhaustion, of sleepless nights spent awake in a restless daze.

With gentle care, she reached out and placed two fingers against Sheele's wrist, checking her pulse. 

It was weak, but steady.

The nurse knew this patient hadn't eaten at all. Instead, she had been kept alive through injected supplements and intravenous fluids. 

But even those were only enough to sustain her, barely enough to truly keep her body from wasting away. 

It wasn't a long-term solution.

The nurse pulled away, exhaling through her nose. She was no stranger to patients refusing to eat, nor to the many forms of grief that often left soldiers in a similar state.

She had joined the Revolutionary Army a few years back, not as a soldier, but as a combat medic, assigned to bases where wounded resistance fighters were treated. 

She had seen soldiers crushed under their own guilt, refusing food or medicine, punishing themselves for the comrades they couldn't save.

But this patient…

She wasn't just another soldier.

This patient was someone of incomparable status compared to someone like her.

Because General Najenda herself had visited this patient.

Any fool would realise that this patient is connected or worked under her.

Perhaps she is a Night Raider.

Night Raid, a hidden assassin group that is currently wanted all across the Empire.

She had not only seen her face on wanted posters but also heard rumors, whispers of an assassin who wielded giant scissors, a lavender haired woman who had slain corrupt officials brutally.

And yet, here she was, nothing like the legend the world spoke of.

The nurse didn't know what had happened to her, but she could make a guess.

Perhaps someone close to her had died on one of her missions.

Perhaps she blames herself for it.

She hesitated before speaking again, her voice quieter this time.

"...Whatever you've gone through, it wasn't your fault."

Silence.

The woman didn't move.

Didn't react.

The nurse lingered for a moment longer, but eventually, she sighed.

She picked up the untouched tray of cold food, gave Sheele one last glance, and turned to leave.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Sheele remained exactly as she was.

But as she opened it, she nearly froze.

Another patient stood in the doorway, wrapped head to toe in thick bandages and wearing a black coat. 

He was shorter than her, but somehow his azure eyes looked scary.

She paused, then figured out who it was.

Another person who had been frequently visited by General Najenda and even the Vice-commander of support-division, Geralt.

'Wasn't he unconscious for an entire month? I have heard that his body was a bloody mess? Did he regain his consciousness today?' A sudden surge of questions arose in her mind, but she didn't ask.

His aquamarine eyes flickered past her, peering into the dimly lit room. 

The darkness inside, swallowed most of the details, but the lone figure sitting motionless in the bed.

His gaze lingered for a moment before he finally spoke.

"Why aren't the curtains open? Or at least a lamp?"

The nurse straightened. "The patient prefers it that way, sir."

His eyes went towards the untouched food on the nurse's hands.

He knew what it meant.

After staying quiet for a moment, he gave a slow nod.

"Alright." He then turned his gaze back to her. "I want to have a conversation with her. Is that okay?"

The nurse hesitated only briefly before nodding.

"Yes, of course." She stepped aside, allowing him room to enter.

As Bane stepped forward, the door clicked shut behind them, swallowing them both into the quiet gloom.

Bane stood just inside the room, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. 

The air was thick, stale, unmoving, the kind of suffocating stillness that came from a space that had been left undisturbed for too long.

Sheele remained exactly as she had been before he entered. Seated in the middle of the medical bed, her back leaning against the raised headrest, her lavender eyes unfocused as she stared at the wall.

The faint traces of her treatment were evident. The soft hospital gown hung loosely on her frame, unable to hide how much weight she had lost. Her skin, already pale, looked even more ghostly under the shadows. Dark circles bruised the space beneath her eyes.

"..."

She didn't acknowledge him. Didn't move. Didn't speak.

Bane sighed through his nose, stepping closer to the bed, then wordlessly pulled over a chair.

He let out a low whistle as he took in the room again. "Damn," he muttered, shaking his head. "I've seen prison cells with more charm than this."

"....."

Undeterred, he stood up, rolling his shoulders before walking over to the curtains. With one quick motion, he yanked them open. Sunlight spilled into the room, cutting through the dimness.

Sheele flinched ever so slightly, the sudden light forcing her to blink.

Bane smirked. "There. Now it looks slightly less like a tomb."

Ignoring the lack of response, he made his way to the window, unlocking it and pushing it open just enough to let in some fresh air. 

The warm breeze carried the scent of the trees outside, replacing the stagnant air that had been lingering in the room.

"Better," he said simply, before leisurely returning to his seat.

He stretched out his legs, sighing dramatically. "So," he started, pulling out a cigarette, "fun fact, I woke up today."

"Those Imperial bastards really did a number on me," he cursed under his breath.

He lit the cigarette, taking a slow drag before exhaling. "Don't remember much, but apparently I spent the last month in a coma. Guess I really was the one sleeping on the job this time."

"..."

Bane looked at her, "My body's a bloody mess. It feels like I got run over by a damn war danger beast. And I look like one of those ancient cursed mummies you hear about. All I'm missing is a damn sarcophagus."

Still nothing.

He exhaled, shaking his head. "Tough crowd."

He tapped some ash into the tray, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She still hadn't moved, hadn't spoken. But she hadn't told him to leave either.

That was something, at least.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

After his cigarette was finished, he leaned back, taking out his pack of cigarettes and tapping another one free.

"That nurse, Is she giving you trouble?" He asked.

Sheele didn't answer.

Bane exhaled, unbothered. "Figured. Nurses like that are persistent. But you should at least be grateful. They could've left you to rot."

"..."

He lit his cigarette, inhaling the smoke before letting it out in a slow, lazy stream.

"Did others visit you?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

A pause.

Then, after several long seconds, so long that he thought she wouldn't respond at all, Sheele barely nodded.

"Hmm." Bane hummed in acknowledgment, watching the ember at the end of his cigarette burn low.

Silence settled between them again.

Bane wasn't good at this.

Comforting people. Offering words that could fix things. And frankly, he wasn't about to start lying now.

He hadn't known Mine well. Nor Mika. Sheele's grief was hers alone.

So he wasn't going to tell her things like "I understand." Because he didn't.

Even if he knew the pain of losing someone, his losses had happened more than a decade ago. 

And time, cruel as it was, dulls the pain. 

After the grief subsides, all that remains is an emptiness so vast it no longer hurts.

Because of that, he understood one thing, this wasn't his place to console her.

She didn't need shallow reassurances, empty words meant to patch up wounds that ran too deep to heal.

No, all he wanted was to make her feel something again. Anything. Otherwise, this silence, this suffocating weight of grief, would consume her from the inside out.

Because he knew that feeling.

In that laboratory where he was captured, for five whole years, he had refused to accept his parents' deaths. 

He had clung to the illusion that it was all just a nightmare, one he would eventually wake up from. 

That, at any moment now, he would open his eyes, and they would still be there. Waiting for him.

But deep down, he had known the truth.

It was all false. A pathetic attempt to cope. A delusion of a child too broken to accept reality.

And when that illusion finally shattered, when he looked into the mirror and saw his own hideous reflection for the first time.

After so many unknown years, he raged.

He had screamed, destroyed, let every pent-up emotion burst free in a fit of fury so raw it had nearly consumed him whole.

And maybe, just maybe…

That was what Sheele needed now.

He took another slow drag, letting the quiet stretch.

Eventually, he spoke again.

"I won't tell you to 'snap out of it.' I won't tell you it's 'going to be okay' or any of that bullshit. We both know that once someone dies, they don't come back from the dead."

He exhaled, watching the smoke curl. "But I will say this. If you're planning to just sit here forever, you should at least have the decency to say that out loud."

Sheele's fingers twitched slightly against the blanket.

It was small. Barely noticeable.

But he noticed.

Bane exhaled, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray before leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

"You're not obligated to 'move on,'" he said, his tone even. "And you sure as hell don't owe anyone an explanation for what you feel. But if you really intend to do nothing for the rest of your life, then own that. Say it. Out loud."

…..

Author's Note:

And with that, this chapter comes to a close. This was my first time writing something like this, diving deep into emotions, grief, and the weight of loss. I hope I did justice to Sheele's struggle and Bane's way of dealing with it.

Let me know your thoughts! Did you like this interaction? Do you think Bane's approach was fitting for the situation? I'd love to hear your feedback.

On another note, my exams are starting this week(And I am preparing for it), which answers my slow update speed. I'll do my best to keep writing, but bear with me if things take a little longer than usual.

As always, thank you for reading and supporting this fic! Your encouragement keeps me going.