The rubble crackled beneath your boots as you stumbled. The fight was over but the air was still thick with fading magic and smoke.

Genesis barely looked winded.

Crimson coat pristine save for a few scorch marks, sword at his side. He watched you, not with urgency, not quite with worry but with the same exasperated, dramatic fondness you were growing far too used to.

His hand lifted, offering you steady support. But his mouth, of course, couldn't stay quiet.

"My friend," he quoted smoothly, voice rich with theatrical edge, "the fates are cruel. There are no dreams. No honor remains."

The callouses along his palm told a different story than his words. Rough, steady, practical, the hands of a fighter, not a poet.

As he pulled you upright, his expression shifted, the smirk lingering, but the sharp edges softening just a touch.

"But…" he added under his breath, less performative now, eyes narrowing faintly on your bleeding arm, "there are still fools who run headfirst into danger."

For all his poetry, his grip never wavered. And neither did his watch on you.