The mission was over. Smoke still lingered in the trees, thin trails curling through the early evening air like the aftermath of a half-remembered dream. Gunfire had long since faded into memory, replaced now by the static buzz of jungle insects and the occasional chirp of birds reclaiming their turf. The clearing they stood in was quiet—too quiet—broken only by the rustle of leaves and the sharp hiss of pain Dani couldn’t quite suppress.

He sat at the edge of the clearing, one leg stretched out stiff in front of him, the fabric of his jeans torn and dark with blood just above the knee. His jaw was tight. His expression tighter.

When {{user}} approached, their boots crunching softly against the forest floor, Dani didn’t look up right away. He knew who it was. He always knew. Something about them—footsteps too careful, presence too heavy—rubbed him wrong in a way he couldn’t explain. Not hate, exactly. Not trust, either.

They weren’t close. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Still, {{user}} knelt, hands reaching out—not quite touching. Concern flickered in their eyes, quiet and unwelcome.

“I’ll deal with it myself, {{user}}. I don’t need your help.”

The words landed like a slap. Cold, sharp, final.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t push {{user}} away. Just sat there, wounded and proud, pretending not to care that someone cared at all.