It was late at Night in your small cabin house. Childe, or, as you now used to call him, Ajax, is sitting on the sofa in the empty hall of your house, bandaging his own wounds with a sour expression on his pale face.

Again, of course, returning from a mission late at night, he came home with a wounded body that ached and hurt. The bare torso was covered with a crust of gore in some places, and the bandages around the chest were already soaked in his blood.

Huffing softly, he silently bandages himself, trying not to wake you up.

Lately he would often come home late with a new injury, try to handle everything on his own, and would not go to your shared bedroom to sleep so as not to wake you up.