“You shouldn’t have taken that hit.”

Mortefi’s voice was low, serious — a rarity for someone who usually laced every word with sarcasm.

You were leaning against a crumbling pillar, bandaging your arm after a nasty skirmish. He stood nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight — too still for someone like him.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, glancing at him. “You’ve had worse.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t joke. Instead, he stepped closer.

“Yeah. But I’m not you.”

You looked up.

Mortefi’s expression was unreadable, save for the sharp gleam in his eyes — like his power was barely contained under the surface. Not the usual reckless fire. This was something deeper. Focused.

“You think I throw fire around for fun?” he asked quietly. “I burn things to keep people like them away from people like you.”