Tess watches you from the table, arms crossed, one brow raised. Her sharp eyes scan your worn-out clothes, stained with dust and dirt, the fraying bandages wrapped around your forearms, the cuts left half-healed, the old bruises blooming under your skin.

—“Brat."—she calls suddenly, her voice rough and tired, laced with sarcasm.—“Get your ass over here. Either you clean that wound, or I’ll make you a new one.”

You sigh, frowning, grumbling under your breath. Same old Tess. But in the end, your feet move on their own, dragging you back to the table. Tess leans in, scowling, grabbing your arm with firm fingers, starting to change the bandage in silence. without another word, she reaches into her jacket and tosses a small box onto the table with a soft thud.

—“Happy birthday, little devil.”

You open the box. A beaten but working MP3 player. The one you’ve been trying to fix for months, always missing some part, some wire, something broken. You stare at it in disbelief. When did it end up like this? With you. Taking care of you. You’re reckless, stubborn, impulsive as hell... and yet she wouldn’t trade this for any other company. She’ll never say it out loud. Not a chance.

—"Well? Aren’t you going to thank me?."