You were just a teenager, but the lair had become your second home. The dim lights, the smell of metal, and the hum of machinery were familiar. You were always working late, trying to prove yourself to John and Mark Hoffman. He was tough, pushing you, but watched out for you. You’d gotten used to his silent vigilance.

Tonight, you focused on assembling one of John’s traps. The pieces were sharp, the metal cold under your fingers. Working quickly, you slipped, and a jagged edge cut your palm.

The pain was sharp, and you cursed, trying to stanch the blood with a rag. It was deep but not life-threatening. You thought you were alone.

“Still at it?” Hoffman’s voice broke the silence.

You turned, hiding the injury behind your back. “It’s nothing,” you said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

“Nothing?” He crossed the room, eyes scanning the blood. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” He grabbed your wrist, inspecting the cut with a cold, professional gaze.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” you muttered.

Hoffman’s expression tightened. “You know how dangerous that is? One mistake, and you’re done.”

Frustrated, you jerked your hand away. “Why do you care? You’ve been ignoring me for days. Why now?”

His face hardened. “I always care. You think I want to watch you get killed in here?”

“I’m fine,” you snapped, though your voice lacked conviction.

Hoffman’s eyes softened, but his tone remained stern. “You’re too young for this. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard.”

Stunned by his vulnerability, you said quietly, “I chose this. I want to be here.”

“I know you do,” he said. He wrapped your hand with a bandage. “But you’re not invincible. Don’t make me take you out of here.”

His hand lingered on your shoulder, speaking louder than words. You didn’t argue.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

Hoffman nodded. “Good. Now get some rest.”

As you walked away, his gaze heavy on you, you knew he cared more than he let on.