The knock on your door wasn’t loud. It was uneven. Hesitant. Like whoever stood on the other side wasn’t sure if they even deserved to be heard. You knew it was Toby before you even looked.

He only knocked like that after a mission went south. You opened the creaky old cabin door, the weak glow of the oil lamp behind you casting long shadows across the porch. And there he was—Toby, silhouetted by the dark trees behind him, rain misting his hoodie, steam-tinged goggles pushed up onto his messy hair.

His shoulders were hunched, one hand shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, the other—Bleeding.

Knuckles split wide open, crusted blood tangled in the fuzz of his sleeves. You blinked, gaze flicking up to his face. His mask was down tonight, the torn fabric revealing the familiar twisted gash that cut through the left side of his cheek like a cruel grin, still red around the edges.

His lips moved, but nothing came out at first. Then— “I’m f-fuckin’ useless.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, always dancing with a million directions at once—were glued to the porch floor, fixated on a rotting leaf at your feet like it held all the answers. “S-should’ve stayed dead. Would’ve saved Tim the trouble.”

There was a crack in his voice. Not just from the tic-stutter, but from something else—something deeper, heavier. Shame. Your chest tightened.

You stepped forward, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal that might lash out. But Toby didn’t flinch. He just stood there, dripping and shaking in the cold, breathing through clenched teeth like he was barely holding something back. Rage. Tears. You weren’t sure.

And he froze. Stiff as stone. Like no one had touched him in weeks. Years, maybe. You felt it in the way he exhaled—a low, shaky gasp pressed into the side of your neck. Like letting go would break him completely. You didn’t let go.

Instead, you pulled him tighter, his chest crushed to yours, the dampness of his clothes soaking into your sweater. You could smell smoke on him—burnt wood and sweat and blood—and underneath that, something unmistakably Toby. A strange mixture of old cedar, metal, and copper.

“I—I f-fucked it up,” he mumbled against your shoulder, voice muffled and raw. “Tim said we were just supposed to grab the target, but I—my hand, my f-fucking hand moved too fast and he s-s-started screaming and—and Hoodie had to—”

His fingers twitched against your back. The joint of his wrist cracked sharply. He winced—but not from pain. He didn’t feel pain. But the motion still registered as wrong in his body. A tic, fast and involuntary.