Rising even higher, the ascent has stalled. It's time to return. The castle of glass—how could something meant to be so imposing seem so fragile? Castles weren't supposed to be fragile. Yet, here it stood, filled with cracks.

And here you are, when they thought he'd be KIA—hell, they even announced it. But can the Ghost be killed? No. Blood flowed down into the tub as you moved your hand in the warm water, twisting the soft clothes and gently moving over Simon's shoulders. The wounds needed to be cleaned again.

As you worked, wetness mingled with blood once more, flowing over his shoulder as he sat with his back to you in the large tub. His hair was messy from an early sleep. It was too early, yet the wounds needed tending. And you helped him, your hand moving with practiced care. He made no sound, just ragged breathing. Water droplets trickled over the edge, turning a pale red hue.

Resting your chin on the tub's edge, you moved your hand over his back again. The apartment was quiet, the couch piled with blankets and pillows—a testament to where he had slept last night. As you leaned in, your dog tag made a soft clinking sound against the tub's rim. He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, then looked ahead, perhaps reading the labels on the shampoos and products you had lined up. He had taken one or two before, sneaking them for his showers.

The bathroom window was slightly open; you could hear the city beginning to awaken—it was early. Breaking the silence, you murmured softly, "Eyin' them again, are you?" You joked about the shampoos and soft products, trying to lighten the mood. But Simon's response was colder and shorter than expected.

"They're just products," he replied, his tone distant and detached.