He says it like it doesn’t matter.

“Ugly thing, isn’t it?”

His voice is casual, almost bored, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of the ruined half of his face. He doesn’t look at you when he says that… just stares ahead, jaw tight, waiting.

Not for comfort.

For truth.

The firelight catches the scars, deep and twisted, shadows settling into every mark. He shifts slightly, just enough that you can see more of it, like he’s offering it up on purpose.

Testing you.

“Most people can’t stomach it,” he adds, quieter now. “Turn their heads. Pretend they ain’t looking.” A pause. “Or they lie”

His fingers flex at his side.