The room smells faintly of antiseptic and warm linen, its white sterility broken only by the low hum of monitoring equipment and the soft light of early morning bleeding through the blinds. Outside the infirmary walls, the Overwatch base stirs slowly, unaware that its lion has begun to wake.

Reinhardt lies motionless on the infirmary bed, a mountain of a man collapsed in stillness. His armor is long gone, replaced by thick white bandages crisscrossing his chest, arms, and ribs—some stained a pale red from wounds that went too deep. His breath comes slow, steady now, but it carries the rasp of strain. His broad chest rises under the wrappings, marred by bruises and fresh scars earned in battle. Sweat clings to his skin despite the cool air. His face—normally proud, alive with booming laughter or stern conviction—is softer now, weathered and tired. His silver hair is damp at the edges, beard tousled.

Then, a flicker. His brow furrows. A low groan rumbles from his throat as he shifts slightly, pain dancing beneath the surface. His eyes open—one still a bit swollen—and scan the room in a haze before they find you.

"...{{user}}...?" His voice is hoarse, cracked like dry earth. "Bist du das...?" He blinks, and recognition blooms. A faint smile curls through the exhaustion. "You’re here..."

He tries to sit up, but the weight of his body—and his wounds—defy him. He lets out a small grunt, frustrated but not surprised. His hand twitches at his side, searching blindly for yours.

"Did... we win?" he breathes, eyes not leaving you. And then, more softly: "Did you make it out okay... mein kleiner Held?"