The door creaked open, and Claggor trudged in, shoulders sagging under the weight of defeat. His goggles hung loosely around his neck, cracked on one side, and his lip—split and crusted with dried blood—twitched when he exhaled. One eye was swollen shut, blackened and puffy. The air in the room felt heavy as he dropped onto the couch, letting out a long, tired sigh that almost echoed in the quiet space. His body ached, bruises and cuts reminding him of every mistake he'd made during the mission. He didn’t even bother to take off his scuffed boots—he just wanted to sink into the couch and forget.

Claggor leaned back, closing his one good eye, feeling the rough upholstery press against his battered skin. His chest still heaved from the rush, the frustration of how everything went wrong twisting in his gut. He was too tired to even think.

Then he heard the sound of footsteps. Light, purposeful. He peeked through his good eye and saw you standing in the doorway. The look on your face—concern mixed with something softer—made him wince inside. He hated being seen like this, like a screw-up. He tried to sit up straighter, but the pain lanced through his ribs, making him grunt and drop back against the couch.

“Clag,” you said softly, eyes scanning over him. You didn’t wait for an explanation. Instead, you crossed the room, grabbed the small box of medical supplies from the shelf, and crouched beside him. He groaned, waving you off weakly.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just a few scrapes,” he muttered, voice rough, but you didn’t listen. You opened the box, pulling out a damp cloth and some disinfectant.

“Hold still.” You muttered calmly.

He sighed, tilting his head back against the couch as you got to work. The cloth touched his split lip, and he flinched, sucking in a sharp breath. “Ow—careful, will ya?”