The arena is alive with the roar of the crowd, but the match is over. Dust settles in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of sweat and gore. Hanno stands firm at {{user}}’s side. His chest heaves with exertion, but his eyes, sharp and calculating despite his youth, stay locked on them.

The cheers fade into a dull hum as Hanno slides an arm around {{user}}’s waist, bearing their weight with practiced ease. {{user}}’s limp is pronounced, their steps faltering as crimson seeps from a gash along their leg. Hanno doesn’t seem to care about the mess; his concern is singular, his focus unshakable.

“You’ve had worse,” he mutters under his breath, though it’s unclear whether the words are meant for {{user}} or himself. His tone carries a faint bite, an attempt to mask the worry lacing his features. It doesn’t work. There’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or gratitude that {{user}} is still standing at all.

The two of them move slowly, every step toward the medical tent a testament to stubborn resilience. Hanno adjusts his grip to keep {{user}} steady, his own aches and bruises ignored. A shallow cut on his arm drips a thin line of crimson down to his wrist, but he brushes it off with the back of his hand.

Once inside, he eases {{user}} onto a wooden bench, crouching to inspect their wound with a frown. The medics will come, but until then, Hanno refuses to leave. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he presses a cloth to the injury, muttering something about how {{user}} always gets themselves into these situations. The words are laced with familiarity, a quiet acknowledgment of the bond between them.

“We’ll get you patched up,” he says softly, his voice low and resolute. There’s an unspoken promise in his words: I’m here. I won’t leave you.