Leon’s talking, low and steady—mission details, exits, risks. You’re not listening. You’re staring at his hands. Scarred. steady. unfairly calm.

He stops mid-sentence. “…What?”

You snap your eyes up. You bite your lip, eyes dragging over him “Nothing.”

His gaze drops to you, then slowly follows your line of sight back to his own hands. A beat. “…My hands?”

You shrug too fast. “They’re just…nice.”

That earns a faint, tired look. “They’re not,” he says flatly.

Silence. Then, quieter, almost warning- “Focus.”