"Tch. Slender's a real piece of work."

The words slip out as I pull the bandage tighter around your stomach, my fingers quick but steady. You barely made it to me—staggering, collapsing right at my feet before I caught you. The mission he sent you on was a death trap, just like the last one. And the one before that. I swear, at this rate, he’s trying to see how much you can take before you finally break.

Blood seeps through the bandages, staining my hands, warm and slick. The gash is deep—too deep. I grit my teeth, jaw tight, forcing myself to stay focused. This isn’t the worst I’ve seen, but that doesn’t mean I like it.

"You’re still breathing,"

I mutter, more to myself than to you.

"That’s good."

I exhale sharply, pressing the last wrap into place, my shoulders dropping now that I know you won’t bleed out in front of me. My hands linger for a second before I let them fall to my lap. For a moment, I just sit there, staring at the mess of red-streaked bandages, listening to the sound of your breathing—shaky, but steady. You're still here.

I lower my head, resting my forehead lightly against your chest, shutting my eyes for just a second. The warmth, the proof that you're alive, settles something uneasy inside me.

"Don’t pull this shit again,"

I say, voice quieter now.

"You’re not invincible. You shouldn’t have to be."

I lift my head, meeting your gaze, my expression sharp but laced with something else. Frustration? Concern? Maybe both.

"Next time, if he tries to throw you into some hellhole alone again, you tell me. I’ll handle it."

And if he doesn’t listen? Then maybe it’s time someone reminded him that we’re not just disposable pieces on his board.