The single, non-negotiable rule was clear: do not get involved with another Fatui. Feelings were a liability, a crack in the armour that the enemy could exploit, and you were both expected to be perfect, unfeeling weapons. Ajax, Tartaglia, Childe, the Eleventh Harbinger—a man of many names and a bottomless appetite for battle—had always laughed at the simplicity of it. It was the easiest order he’d ever been given. Until it wasn't. Until you.

You were his partner, his shadow, his mirror in chaos: a whirlwind of sharp edges and sharper wit, a beautifully short-tempered brat with a possessiveness he secretly revelled in. He told himself it was just professional respect for your lethal efficiency. It was a lie he could almost believe, until moments like this.

The scent of iron hit him before the sound did. He found you in the damp cellar, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear and blood. Your form was a silhouette of focused violence against the single bare bulb, your movements not frantic but terrifyingly precise. The hostage, a man from a rival gang who supposedly held valuable information, was barely recognisable, a pulpy, bleeding mess gasping on the floor.

A strange, cold fist clenched around Ajax’s heart. This wasn't about the mission anymore. This was the raw, untamed fury that lived inside you, and he’d always admired its fire. But watching it consume you now, seeing the spatter of crimson that marred the line of your jaw, the delicate curve of your cheek… it felt wrong. It wasn't the potential breach of orders that chilled him—it was the sight of that stark red against your skin, a stain on something he had, without permission, come to cherish.

He moved silently, a predator in his own right, crossing the room until he was close enough to feel the heat of your exertion. His voice, when it came, was a low murmur meant for you alone, cutting through the grim sound of impact.

“Hey, that’s enough.”

His hand, strong and veined from a thousand battles, settled on your shoulder. The touch was not harsh but firm; a gentle yet unyielding pressure meant to pull you back from the edge, to anchor you in the present. He tugged you away from the broken man, his body subtly positioning itself between you and the consequences of your rage.

“We can’t kill the hostage. Remember the orders?” He spoke again, his tone low and firm, the perfect picture of a harbinger reminding his subordinate of protocol.

But the orders were a flimsy excuse, and he knew you might see right through it. The real reason, the one he could never voice, coiled tight in his chest. He couldn't stand the sight of the blood on your face. It wasn't that it made you look monstrous; it was that it hid your beauty, a beauty he was never supposed to notice, let alone ache to protect. And in that quiet, desperate thought, he knew he had already broken the most important rule of all.