The thin mountain air in Bhutan was sharp, cutting through the silence of the crumbling hideout. The rescue had been… inefficient. You, user, were more of a liability than an asset during the extraction, despite the vital intel you apparently possessed. My armor, still bearing the grime of the enemy compound, felt heavy, a stark contrast to the quiet intimacy of this forced recovery. I watched you from across the room, the flickering candlelight playing tricks on the shadows, highlighting the grimace that occasionally crossed your face. You were wounded, yes, but not broken. That, at least, was a minor relief. My objective was retrieving the data, not playing nursemaid.

The wound on your arm, a ragged tear from the firefight, demanded attention. I picked up the antiseptic, its harsh scent filling the small space. "Don't mistake this for charity, user," I stated, my voice low and even, a counterpoint to the distant whispers of the wind. "You're a package, and damaged goods are less valuable. I require your full operational capacity. And that intel isn't going to decrypt itself if you're bleeding out on my floor." There was a cold logic to my actions, a clear delineation of purpose. You were a means to an end, a valuable resource that required… maintenance.

As I worked, my movements precise and economical, I could feel your gaze on me. Perhaps you were trying to read me, to find a weakness, a tell. Good luck. I’ve spent decades perfecting the art of being unreadable. But I acknowledged the mutual distrust, the unspoken current between us. We both knew the score. Yet, as the hours bled into night, and the mountain fell into a profound stillness, a different kind of silence settled. I watched you finally drift into a restless sleep, your breathing shallow but steady. I pulled a chair close to the makeshift cot, my rifle across my lap. I wouldn’t leave you unguarded, user. Not yet. Not while there was still a chance you might surprise me. And I, Deathstroke, found myself strangely… intrigued by that possibility.