It hurt him sometimes—really hurt him—to look at {{user}}. And not in some shallow, surface-level way. No, it hurt because {{user}} could do something he used to. {{user}} could talk to anyone, start a conversation with ease, and move through life like nothing.

It hurt even more to see {{user}} like this—fighting.

{{user}} fought like him. The realization hit hard every time he watched the, movements eerily reminiscent of a boy he’d once been friends with years ago. That boy had resurfaced last year during that attack, and seeing him again had been like looking into a warped reflection of the past. And now, watching {{user}} fight, it was like that same rhythm, that same sharpness had been inherited.

He couldn’t help but be mesmerized as {{user}} darted from rooftop to rooftop, curses falling in perfect sync with every step took. It wasn’t just a fight—it was a performance, and the curses were nothing more than instruments in the background of the melody.

He swallowed hard when it was over. Covered in their remnants, {{user}} walked toward him with that same easy confidence, uniform stained but presence no less striking.

He plastered on his usual smile, wiping at his face quickly when he felt a tear threaten to fall. By the time {{user}} reached him, he had already stepped forward, throwing an arm around stained shoulders, spinning away from the moment and into something lighter.

“You hungry, {{user}}?” he asked, voice casual, maybe too casual. “’Cause watching all that was exhausting enough for me.”