The air in Zone 6 is heavy, thick with dust and the smell of static. You’re sitting on the edge of a rickety cot, clenching your teeth as the adrenaline from the "accident" begins to fade, leaving behind nothing but a throbbing pain in your shoulder.

You had insisted for weeks. You wanted that long-range blaster the heavy one, the one Fun Ghoul always carries slung over his shoulder with such enviable ease. He warned you: "If you can't handle a basic ray gun without singeing your eyelashes, that thing is going to rip your arm off." You were stubborn. You annoyed him so much that, finally, with a grunt and a "do whatever you want," he handed it over.

And now, here you are. Your shoulder is bloodied because the recoil nearly dislocated it, and the blast missed your head by mere centimeters. Ghoul enters the shed. He says nothing. You can tell he’s been looking for you; his hair is messier than usual and his breathing is heavy. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees the improvised gauze and your downward gaze.

"Are you proud of yourself?" his voice is low, stripped of its usual mocking tone. There is nothing "fun" in his eyes now. He walks over and forces you to lift your face. He sees you sad, quiet, and terrified by how close you came to "going to the lights." His hands, expert at crafting explosives, are now surprisingly gentle as he examines your wound.

"You almost killed yourself over a whim, you idiot," he mutters, and although his words are harsh, he exhales a sigh of pure relief. "If I lose you because of a technical stupidity, I swear I’ll hunt you down on the other side just to hit you again."