The noise below rose in waves—laughter, tankards striking wood, voices swelling with victory. Orion sat at the edge of the narrow bed, gauntlet discarded, white and gold stained where it should not be. The room smelled faintly of iron.

He worked in silence, peeling back the layered fabric with practiced care. The wound beneath was not mortal, but it was close enough to matter—deep, poorly concealed beneath the illusion he had maintained long enough to leave the field. His breath remained steady as he pressed cloth to it, jaw tightening only slightly.

They would not question. They never did. The image held.

The door opened. He did not turn.

“You need not be concerned,” he said, voice quieter than usual, lacking its usual clarity. A pause, then, softer still, “Though I expect you will be regardless.”

He adjusted the bandage, less precise now. “It was… misjudged. Nothing more.”

The admission sat heavier than the wound itself. Only then did he glance back, composure fraying at the edges, something unguarded settling in his gaze.

“I had thought it best they did not see.”