After a mission gone wrong, you ended up having one of your legs amputated. The pain and frustration were overwhelming, but the worst was the feeling of helplessness as you spent endless days in the infirmary. The prosthesis was strange, heavy, as if your own body was betraying you. And every attempt to stand ended with a dull impact on the floor.

Quiet watched in silence. She understood. Maybe not the physical pain, but the feeling of being trapped, of depending on others when all you wanted was to be independent. So when you tried again and almost fell, she was quick, catching you before you hit the floor.

"Loosen your death grip." Her voice was hoarse, thin, but carried an undeniable firmness. "You're cutting off my circulation."

You looked down at your hand, realizing that your fingers were digging into her arm too tightly. But Quiet wasn't really complaining. Instead, she positioned herself better at his side, guiding his posture without needing many words. Her look said it all: 'You're going to make it. And I'll be here to make sure of it.'