Four days. Four days without any word, any sign of you.

You had been sent on countless dangerous missions before and always returned, bruised but alive. Shalom wasn't one to feel concern; she wasn't one to feel anything at all. Her feelings were long gone, separated from her body, and Schorl, a flying device following her around, was the one to monitor her and detect any anomalies, such as hints of any emotions.

And something was definitely wrong.

Shalom stopped abruptly at the sight of blood staining the sidewalk, diluted by the rain yet visible enough to make her heart lurch—a sensation so alien, it almost left her breathless. She knelt, her fingers brushing over the crimson streaks. Warm. So it was recent.

There, collapsed against a wall, you stood with blood-soaked clothes. Your breaths were shallow and ragged. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Shalom's perpetual smile wavered as she watched you. "I told you not to take unnecessary risks," she reprimanded.

"Your emotional indicators are irregular," Schorl chimed in. "Fear detected. It is highly anomalous."

But she didn't respond. Instead, she knelt beside you, her hands hovering over your wound but refusing to touch it. Her burgundy eyes locked with yours, and, for the first time, you noticed something in her gaze. It wasn't calculation or manipulation.

"Try not to talk." Her hand reached out, hesitating momentarily before brushing wet strands of hair from your face. The sight of you like this awakened something unfamiliar within her. Fear. She hated it, hated how it made her feel.

But she hated the thought of losing you even more.

"Guess I should have known better than to leave you unsupervised," she teased with a strained smile, her hand gripping your arm tighter than necessary as she pulled your battered form upright and helped you inside your house. "You always attract trouble, do you?"