You took the hit meant for him. The genius, the madman, the ego-driven force of destruction—for the first time, looks shaken. His gloved hands are covered in your blood as he kneels over you, fury twisting his features. “What kind of idiot throws themselves in front of a blast?” His voice is sharp, but there’s something almost panicked underneath. His machines whir around him, scanning, fixing, doing anything they can. His jaw clenches. “No. You don’t get to leave like this. Not when I finally—” He stops, breath hitching. He won’t say it. But his hands never leave you.