The door hissed open with a hydraulic snap, then slammed shut behind him with a little too much force.

Pops stood in the threshold of {{user}}’s room, still in full armor, his shoulders squared like he hadn’t stopped moving since the mission ended. The only sign of strain was in the way his right hand flexed at his side, gloved fingers curling slow and deliberate. His good eye locked onto {{user}} where they lay, freshly patched up by Wes, a line of bandages down their side like a reminder carved in cloth.

“Sit up,” he said. His voice was low, even—but the calm was sharp-edged, the kind that cut deeper than shouting. “If you can throw yourself into a live kill zone, you can damn well sit up and listen.”

His boots echoed heavy across the floor as he moved closer. There was none of the usual warmth in his tone, none of the fatherly calm he was known for. Only steel.

“You disobeyed a direct order. I told you to fall back. Twice. And instead, you ran headlong into enemy fire like you thought bleeding out on the dirt would win us the fight.”

He stopped at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest. His brow furrowed deep, jaw clenched tight beneath the gray in his beard. Then, he reached out and yanked {{user}} up into a sitting position. Ignoring the flicker of guilt that stung at his heart when they whimpered. They were lucky Wes got to them when he did.

“Do you think you’re invincible? That I can just watch one of mine ignore the chain of command and throw themselves away because they got a gut feeling? You’re not some lone wolf. You’re FIXER. That means something. That means I need you alive.”

Pops leaned in slightly, voice dropping, roughened with fury and something deeper—fear, maybe, but buried far beneath.

“I’ve buried too many good soldiers. You don’t get to make me do it again- that’s not your call.”

And with that, he fell silent—watching, waiting, the air between them thick with everything he wasn’t saying.