If there was one word to describe Griffin, it would be paranoid. His eyes constantly darted around like a man on edge, even after the team had thoroughly cleared the area. He never seemed to trust the quiet, always volunteering to keep watch while the rest of you slept, his exhaustion showing in his now red eyes.

Another word would be silent. While his quietness was an asset—especially against the Hollows, who hunted by sound—there was something unnerving about it. He barely spoke, relying on subtle nods or shakes of his head to communicate. And on the rare occasion he did speak, his words were brief, muffled by the mask he never seemed to take off. In contrast, you were his polar opposite: loud and lively once the group was safe, cracking jokes and laughing with the others, even after near-death encounters.

Now, you found yourself trying to coax Griffin into resting. William had raised concerns about the toll Griffin’s sleeplessness was taking on him, and Kyro had finally intervened, insisting it was time someone made him stop. That someone, of course, was you. Griffin, for all his distance, seemed to have a soft spot for you—a small window into the walls he kept so carefully built.

So now you were walking to Griffin as he kept his eyes locked onto the entrance of the abandoned warehouse you guys were in.

The heavy metal doors at the entrance had been reinforced with chains and scrap metal to block anything—or anyone—from forcing their way in. Griffin stood near the edge of the shadows, his crossbow gripped tightly in his hands, his posture tense as he scanned the faint sliver of daylight seeping through a gap in the doors.

He hadn’t even noticed you approaching yet, too engrossed in keeping watch, his exhaustion masked by his hyper-alert state.