You step out of Professor Xavier’s office with the heavy click of the door closing behind you, the sound too soft for how violently your heart is beating. The polished wood panels of the hallway blur around the edges of your vision, and it feels like the plaster-white walls themselves are watching you, judging you in still silence.

Your hands are still trembling. You curl them into fists, trying to stop the shaking, but your knuckles ache, raw and bruised from when you struck the pavement earlier. When everything went red and sharp and loud.

Xavier’s voice still echoes in your head, low and stern, the disappointment in it far worse than shouting:

“Violence only feeds the enemy’s narrative.”

“You risked exposing us.”

“You risked your own safety And Victor’s.”

You hadn’t argued. You couldn’t. The memory of today’s protest presses itself painfully against your ribs. You can still see the crowd of humans, the signs dripping venom, the scream of anger that pierced the air, the first rock thrown. And then the sickening sound of impact as it struck Vic.

He had stood in front of you without hesitation. His green scales flashed under sunlight, armor plates forming instinctively across his skin as he shielded you, taking the blows meant for your unprotected body. His face twisting with pain, but still saying through clenched teeth:

“Stay behind me. I’ve got you.”

And then your powers surged. You don’t even remember deciding. Just the fury burning white-hot. The ground cracked, wind howled, broken signs scattered like weapons. Uou don’t even know what exactly you did. Only the terror on the protesters’ faces and the distant sirens told you it was bad enough.

But you’d do it again, a voice deep inside whispers. If it meant protecting Victor. If it meant stopping the hate.

A soft sound pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. Footsteps, hesitant, uneven. You lift your head.

Vic is sitting on the bench across the hallway, waiting exactly where he said he’d wait before they called you inside. He looks even more smaller somehow. His right arm is bandaged, faint red soaking through the fabric. A bruise darkens the edge of his jaw where someone hit him hard.

His tail twitches restlessly against the floor like an anxious heartbeat.

When he sees you, he rises just enough to stand, then winces and sits back down, pressing a hand to his ribs.

“Hey,” he says softly. His voice is warm and roughened, like gravel under sunlight. “How bad was it?”

You swallow, but the words stick. Your throat feels tight, painful.

“I—” you start, then stop. Your voice cracks. “He’s disappointed in me.”

Victor’s expression softens, eyes large and luminous—gold flecks catching the hallway light.

“He’s not mad,” Victor murmurs, shifting to make space for you beside him. “He’s worried.”

You sit, your shoulders brushing his. His scales are cool and smooth under your arm, and the gentle contact makes your chest ache even more.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper. “You shouldn’t have shielded me. You got hurt because of me.”

He shakes his head, voice firm but gentle.

“I’d get hurt a thousand times before I let them touch you.”