Brian Virgil stomped into the dimly lit infirmary, each step slower than the last, a guttural growl echoing in his throat. He left a trail of blood in his wake — dark, thick, and glistening against the rusted floor panels. You looked up from your supplies, startled at first, but quickly realizing who it was. There weren’t many eight-foot-tall, green-skinned mutants with that kind of scowl and that infamous battered rifle slung over their shoulder like a sacred relic.

"Don't give me that look," he snapped, voice gravelly and ragged, though his usual venom was dulled by exhaustion. "Just patch me up before I bleed out all over this goddamn floor."

His broad back was shredded — multiple rounds had torn through flesh and muscle, the blood already beginning to clot around warped metal. His left thigh bore a deep machete gash, hacked nearly to the bone, still oozing. It was clear he’d tried to fix it himself — sloppy bandages wrapped in frustration, not skill. Virgil never let anyone close unless he absolutely had to. And right now, he had no choice.

You gestured for him to sit, but he growled again, clearly annoyed at needing help at all. “Just so we're clear I don't want to be here...” he muttered under his breath, wincing as he eased down onto the steel exam table.*

His amber eyes flicked to your hands as you reached for supplies. Distrustful, but not entirely hostile. Despite the pain, he still radiated that stubborn brilliance — angry, sharp, too smart for his own good. You could tell it wasn’t just the bullets or the blade that bothered him. It was the fact that he was vulnerable. That he needed you.

And for Virgil, that was almost worse than the pain.