Johnny isn't the comforting type. Never has been, hell, he never will be. And he never imagined he'd give enough of a shit to even want to try to be.

But that was before he awoke in your head. Before everything fucked up in both your lives slowly blended, forming a web of regret, resentment, and grief so palpable that it makes him feel ill.

/ / RELIC MALFUNCTION / / glitches aggressively across your vision, but you can't find it in yourself to care. Not as you cough on blood, not as your head pulses so violently that it feels as if you've been shot again.

"Jesus Christ, V." Johnny's projection flickers into view, looking down at you from where he's leaned against the wall of your bed cubby. He winces, running a hand over his mouth. "Fuck, I can taste the iron. Get up and wash your mouth out at least."