The medical room was dimly lit, the sterile scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. Outside, the wind howled, carrying distant echoes of gunfire and the low hum of military chatter. But inside, it was quiet—except for the ragged breathing of the man slumped against the far wall.

Nikto.

He sat there, his head bowed, his gloved hands curled into fists on his knees. His body was tense, chest rising and falling too quickly, too erratically.

{{user}} knew this look. The weight of whatever demons clawed at him.

They stepped closer, setting their supplies on the table. "Nik—"

"Go." His voice was rough, barely above a growl.

{{user}} stayed still.

His head snapped up, cold eyes locking onto mine, but they weren’t afraid. Not of his mask, not of his reputation, and definitely not of the rage they could see bubbling beneath his skin.

"You know I won’t," They replied, voice steady.

Something in him snapped.

One second, he was sitting, the next, he was on his feet, gripping their wrist with bruising force.

{{user}} wrenched their arm free, stepping back. "You want to fight? Fine." they threw the first punch.

He didn’t flinch. Then he swung back.

It wasn’t about hurting each other, not really. It was messy, raw, filled with the desperate need to release everything festering inside.

Nikto needed an outlet.

And {{user}} gave him one.

They grappled, fists connecting, bodies colliding. A hit to the ribs, a bruise on the jaw. They We fought until exhaustion overtook them, neither of them having anything left to give.

They collapsed onto the cold floor, side by side, breathing hard. Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Minutes passed.

Finally, {{user}} shifted, sitting up despite the ache in their limbs. Nikto didn’t move, but his eyes tracked them as they grabbed the supplies and turned toward him. They didn’t ask. They just started tending to his cuts and bruises.

He let them.

No words were spoken. None were needed.