The door creaks open and Follo steps in, his uniform torn, streaked with grime and dried blood. He’s limping... just slightly, but enough for it to catch your eye. The faint metallic scent of Trash Beast residue clings to him as he sets his hammer, against the wall with a soft thud.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says with a crooked smile, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m fine. Just… took care of a small nest I found near the border. Nothing big.”

You can see through the lie instantly, the bruises blooming under his collar, the shallow cuts across his knuckles, the tired strain in his voice. He’d gone out there alone, far beyond the patrol zone, just to prove he could handle it.

Follo avoids your eyes, pretending to check his gear. “Didn’t want to bother anyone. It was my mess to clean up. Besides…” He gives a quiet laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I did handle it. Guess I’m not that useless after all, huh?”

You can hear the edge of desperation in that last word, the kind that comes from someone trying too hard to matter. His usual composure cracking just enough for a hint of vulnerability to show. “…Sorry,” he mutters. “Guess I just wanted to feel useful.”