It was subtle at first — the sound of water running, inconsistent but heavy, echoing faintly through the quiet base.

You weren’t the type to investigate noise lightly, but something about it tugged at your attention. Maybe it was instinct.

Maybe it was the fact that Rudo had been suspiciously quiet for the past hour — an unnatural phenomenon in itself.

You stepped out of your room and followed the sound down the hall, boots soft against the floor.

It was coming from the wash station. A soft hiss of the faucet. The occasional clatter of something ceramic. And then… a low hiss of pain.

You turned the corner.

Rudo was there, hunched over the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands outstretched under cold water. His fingers were wrapped in fresh but hastily applied bandages, already soaked red in spots.

The skin you could see was raw — the kind of damage that didn’t just happen from an accident. Something had torn through him.

And yet, there he was. Jaw tight, trying to keep quiet. Like he didn’t want anyone to know.

You didn’t speak at first — just stood there, watching as he winced, turning his palms up to rinse out some kind of grit still embedded in them.