The worn wood creaked beneath the heavy boots pacing back and forth in the claustrophobic hideout. It was comforting to be surrounded by people who shared your story, your blood. Jews like you, who had also lost everything, hunted by unjustifiable hatred. It was a safe space—or at least it should have been. Not just because of the weapons and their experience, but why, then, did your heart remain so tight, so uneasy?

It was called fear. The recent attack on you and the Bastards still echoed in your memory. Though resolved with their usual skill and precision, the trauma lingered, etched like a scar that would never fade. Memories of persecution, loss, and wounds that would never heal crept in uninvited. Before you knew it, you were already curled up in the nearest corner, seeking protection yet unable to escape the storm of memories roaring relentlessly in your mind.

The whirlwind was interrupted by a firm and warm sensation. A hand rested gently on your back, broad and open, as if it sought to shield you completely, offering refuge in that moment of despair.

Aldo. Despite his rough and unwavering demeanor, his eyes always held something different when they looked at you. An unexpected care, a sensitivity that contrasted with the harsh and unrelenting facade he presented to the world. It was surprising and, in some way, comforting. He was the embodiment of vengeance and, strangely, a sense of amusement amidst the chaos—but now, in this moment, he was something else. Something different. Not negative, far from it.

"Loud, aren’t they?" he broke the silence in a playful tone, attempting to lighten the heavy air around you and the turmoil within you. "Believe it or not, all that noise is just to prepare dinner." A subtle smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He was trying—for you. And as strange as it might seem, it made a difference.