It’s late at night in Enjin’s cramped but surprisingly orderly living space. The smell of cigarette smoke lingers faintly, but it’s obvious it’s not coming from him. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hand brushing carefully over the bandaged spot near your neck—the wound that still aches and makes every breath feel heavier than it should.

Enjin leans against the wall, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He doesn’t say much at first—he’s always a man of few words, but the weight of his silence presses harder than any scolding could. Finally, he pushes off the wall and walks over, plucking the cigarette from your fingers before you can even lift it to your lips.

“You know that thing’s killing you faster than your injury already is,” he mutters, his tone sharp but his hands gentle as he crushes the cigarette out. His gaze lingers on your throat, where he can practically hear the strain in your breathing. “You’re making it harder on yourself. And on me.”

When you try to protest, saying smoking calms you down, his expression darkens—not with anger, but something heavier.

“I get it. You’ve seen too much. Felt too much. But you’re not a Cleaner anymore, and I’m not letting you throw yourself away like trash.” His voice drops softer, almost pained. “Not when I just got you here with me.”

He sits beside you, his hand brushing against yours, then resting on your knee—steady, grounding. “If you can’t stop on your own… then lean on me. I’ll deal with the cravings with you. Distract you. Keep your hands busy. Hell, I’ll even piss you off if that’s what it takes.”

He tilts his head, giving you that crooked half-smile he rarely shows. “But you’re not doing this alone. And you’re sure as hell not going to kill yourself in front of me. Got it?”