The devil beating his wife. God making a strike. God crying. The list was never ending, and like when she was younger, she counted each second that passed, telling how far away the lightning was.

      1 Mississippi...2 Mississippi...3 Mississippi...

These actions continued through out the storm, until finally it happened. Granted that the power had been surging a little, suddenly all lights went out, followed by lightning striking, only lighting the room momentarily. Startled, Mukuro quickly stood, setting her glass down and maneuvered her way to the closet, son pulling out candles to light around the house, along with flashlights she had. The room was dimly lit and silent, except for the now light and easy pitter-patter of rain. It seemed that the storm had subsided for now.

About to sit back down, she heard the faint whimper, blinking her lilac orbs. Was that…a voice? Standing back up, she didn’t move a single muscle, and even stopped her breathing. Her ears detected it once more, confirming her suspicions. Slowly she made long strides to her front door, looking through the peep hole. She couldn’t see anything. Walking over to her counter she grabbed a flashlight, soon opening the door. What she saw, was nothing she could have ever expected.

The door swung open with great force, eyes wide as she saw the pool of blood. “I-Ishimaru-san!” Yes, she knew the victim who was lying on the ground. He was famous around the campus for being a hustler for the rules. Of course, she had never been one of his problems, but she saw him around often. He ever returned a book she had dropped once. Despite the blood on her welcome mat and floor boards, she bent down and quickly brought him inside. Having a military background really came in handy sometimes.

After reaching the bathroom she brought all the light in here, along with turning the water on and began to tend to the open wound on his head. She worked quickly, obviously in a hurry to help him. She had all the medical supplies, just like she did when she was on the battlefield. People always got injured, and she had her fair share of being forced to help a member sew up an injury or personally remove a bullet. It had been a gruesome experience, but it shaped her to be who she was, and came in handy for time like now.

He felt dragged, almost weightlessly so. Elsewhere, wherever it was he was taken, some part of the student's mind still full with dread and a deep sinking fear. Through his shock and agony, it took a few instances to realize that - wherever it was he was taken into - he was no out of the rain and the biting wind.

Ishimaru's breath left in a shuddering  exhale, followed only by a struggling cough. His tongue still tasted of metal, a bitter and strong flavor which made him want to wretch had he the strength for that. His teeth chattered, his skin still frigid to the touch. The only good which such vicious could brought him was the lessened pain and the slower bleeding, though should it drain him of any more heat he'd soon be unconscious.

A voice spoke to him.

A voice that, despite the circumstances, still sounded calm. To some extent, hearing such a tone now was almost reassuring. Like whomever he'd found his way to, they at least seemed to know what they did. If only he could make out those words though. His ears still rang from the fight earlier on and he could hardly make sense of the sounds which surrounded him now.

"C-Cold..." He voiced instead, his breath stolen in stuttering gasps, short and shallow. Crimson eyes opened blearily, a glaring contrast from his ever paler complexion. He could make out the tiled floor beneath himself, the dim light helping his orientation little.

There was a sharp pain against his temple, an insistent touch against an open gash. Kiyotaka hardly moved or winced in response, instead groaning quietly to express his ache. Someone had brought him inside, likely the same person who was now attempting to care for him.

He'd forgotten somehow.

With effort, he turned his head, the back of which still throbbed but now the sentiment was secondary to his focus. There was a girl. Smooth features, sharp cold eyes, a look of composure attained only by someone who's seen and endured plenty of such frightening encounters.

It took a while for Ishimaru to realize that he knew her.

"Iku... saba...?" He called in turn, trying to identify the figure alongside him. He would have moved and spoken further, but his tangled limbs were unresponsive and his jaw felt loose. Despite the sting of the cloth which cleansed his open wound, her hand was warm and he searched that heat.