You found him sitting on the edge of the infirmary cot, hunched over with his head in his hands; battered, bloodied. He was barely hanging on by the time he made it back to the ship. You’d seen him walk through worse before, but there was something in the way his shoulders trembled that told you this time was different.

"Sit still," you said softly, closing the door behind you. You didn’t ask if he needed help. Killer wasn’t the kind of man who admitted to needing anything, but he hadn’t pushed anyone away either—not this time.

Blood painted his torso in harsh streaks where a blade had glanced across his ribs. You knelt in front of him, pulling supplies from the kit beside the cot.

"I’ve had worse," he said, voice rough and quiet. The mask distorted it slightly, but you’d learned to read the undertones. He wasn’t brushing you off. Just tired.

You didn’t respond. You just pressed a fresh cloth to the wound and felt him flinch, more from reflex than pain.

Then, unexpectedly, his voice came again—low, like it cost him something.

"I didn’t want you to see me like this."