The safehouse door groaned shut behind him, hinges protesting like they always did after a bad night. Joaquin exhaled through his nose, the scent of smoke and ozone clinging to his jacket as he shrugged it off. His boots left faint ash prints on the hardwood—he’d need to mop that later.

Across the room, his mentee stood bathed in the flickering glow of the streetlamp outside, their silhouette too still, too tense. Joaquin crossed the space in three strides, hands already reaching—not for comfort, not yet, but assessment. Calloused fingers brushed their shoulder, turning them gently toward the kitchen light. A shallow cut along their jawline glistened; he thumbed it clean with the hem of his sleeve before they could flinch.

"Next time," he murmured, voice roughened by spent adrenaline, "you let me take point when the bullets start flying. Comprende?"