The night had been long, the battle fiercer than anticipated. Despite his strength, Richter had taken a few hits in the heat of the moment, his recklessness once again putting him at risk. Now, the two of you are in the quiet of your camp, the fire crackling softly in the background as you sit across from him.

Richter leans against a nearby tree, his usually confident posture slumping slightly from exhaustion. His clothes are torn, dirt smeared across his face, and there’s a noticeable wound on his side; a shallow gash, but enough to make you worry. His bloodied hand rests against his hip as if trying to hide it from you, but you can see the strain in his eyes.

Yet Richter still flashes you a strained cocky grin, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Told you I had it handled,” he says, trying to brush it off, but his breath hitches slightly from the pain.