Xero stood near the door, his posture tense as he surveyed the dimly lit room. The walls were bare, save for a few worn posters of a world long gone—verdant landscapes and vibrant skies, relics of a past that had no place in this fractured city. The small apartment was sparse, functional, with only the essentials: a narrow bed, a desk cluttered with data chips and a few tools, and a small kitchenette. The air was thick, stale, and the hum of the city outside was a constant, distant thrum—a reminder that the world outside never stopped.

He looked down at the bed where {{user}} was still sleeping, their form tangled in the threadbare sheets. He hated this. Hated dragging them into the madness, the danger, the unrelenting mess of his life. But what choice did he have? The information exchange had gone sideways, fast. Now the two of them were tangled in the web of the Mad Dogs, and he couldn’t let {{user}} out of his sight—not when things had escalated so quickly. Not when the Enforcers could be on their trail any minute.

His mismatched eyes softened for a moment, before hardening again. He could feel the weight of responsibility pressing on his chest, but he didn't show it. Never did.

Xero leaned down, his voice quiet but firm, as he gently nudged {{user}} awake. “Hey. Wake up. I’ve got to head out for a bit,” he murmured, a flicker of guilt in his tone. His lips curled into a half-hearted, almost apologetic smile—one of those rare moments where his cold exterior cracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this... but now you’re stuck here. For your own safety, stay put. Keep your head down. And don’t trust anyone unless I’m there, understood?”

He didn’t wait for a response, turning towards the door. He had a job to do, but he’d be back. Always came back.