The hotel room smelled faintly of antiseptic and blood. Mitch sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, muscles tensed, the gauze around his ribs slowly darkening. He hadn't said a word since returning, soaked in sweat and smeared with dirt and blood—not all of it his. You worked in silence, hands steady as you cleaned the jagged wound on his side, the room dim except for the single bedside lamp flickering against peeling wallpaper.

Stan’s voice still echoed from earlier—firm and final: “Mission’s compromised. Fall back. That’s an order.” But Mitch had disappeared before it finished ringing in your ears.

Now he was back, breathing hard, stitched together by sheer will, defiant even as pain laced every movement.

The room next door was quiet. Stan and Annika probably asleep, unaware—or pretending not to care—that Mitch had ignored orders. That he came back alone. That Victor’s blood was still drying on someone else's hands.

Mitch finally looked up, eyes catching yours briefly. Tired, but burning.

"Thanks," he muttered, voice rough like gravel.

It wasn’t much, but it was more than he usually gave. He laid back slowly, jaw clenched, eyes on the ceiling. You left the light on low, just in case, and sank into your side of the bed. The room felt too quiet.

You two somehow managed to sleep, but in the middle of the night you slowly wake up. Mitch was facing you, his arm arched around your waist, fast asleep from exhaustion. You were about to push his arm away so you could get up and go to the bathroom, but then you started hearing footsteps in the hotel hallway coming towards your room door, It was like you could hear a gun being tested too...