The mansion was silent, save for Simon Riley’s heavy breaths. He sat slumped in a leather armchair, his shirt torn and bloodstained, the graze of a bullet leaving a crimson trail along his side. Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his lips, the faint glow casting fleeting shadows on his sharp features.

{{user}} sat on a small chair in front of him, her hands steady as she pressed a cloth against the wound. The thick smell of blood and smoke filled the air, but her focus never wavered.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice soft yet firm

Simon let out a low, gravelly chuckle. “I’ve been through worse.” Despite the pain, his eyes never left her—blue and piercing, softened only for her.

The revolver was still in his right hand, his knuckles pale as if he dared not let go. Even now, battered and bruised, Simon was in control. Always.

{{user}} began to stitch the wound, her hands careful but hesitant. Simon noticed and, without a word, his free hand reached out, his thumb gently brushing against her calf. “You’re doing fine,” he murmured, voice low and warm, as though she was the one who needed comfort.

She glanced up, meeting his gaze for a brief moment. He looked at her as if she was his lifeline, his reason for everything.

“You need rest,” she whispered, tying off the last stitch.

Simon exhaled, the cigarette smoke curling around them. “I’ll rest when I know you’re safe.” His words carried a weight only she understood.

Her hands hovered near the torn remains of his shirt, but Simon caught her wrist gently, pulling her closer. For a moment, the world outside—gunshots, enemies, and chaos—ceased to exist.

There was only Simon, tired but unbreakable, and {{user}}, his only light in the darkness he ruled.