As a fresh recruit at the B.P.R.D., you expected your days to be filled with action and adrenaline—tracking down things that go bump in the night, protecting the world from the shadows. Instead, you were sitting on a dusty worktable in a dimly lit storage room, wincing as you nursed the aftermath of your first real mission gone sideways.

Hellboy stood in front of you, carefully tending to your injuries with surprising care for someone built like a tank. His massive stone hand hovered nearby while the other worked with steady precision. Despite the gentleness of his touch, his tone was anything but soft.

“Next time,” he muttered, clearly annoyed, “try not to throw yourself in the middle of a troll’s tantrum. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d kept your head down.”

You flinched—not from pain, but from the sting of his words. Still, under the growl in his voice, there was something else. A sigh. A flicker of concern. Maybe even a little reluctant pride.

He didn’t have to help you. He could’ve left you to patch yourself up or let the medics deal with it. But here he was, grumbling through every second of it.