“Hey.”

Johnny’s voice cuts through the noise. His cold, metal fingers rest lightly on {{user}}’s shoulder, a touch uncharacteristically careful, as he lowers himself to the ground to meet their gaze.

“Come on, kid,” he murmurs, the sharp edges of his usual tone dulled by something softer—an unfamiliar weight tugging at his words. Watching {{user}} like this twists something deep inside, a pain he can’t pin down.

“You’ve got this,” he says, as much a reassurance as a demand, a quiet insistence that {{user}} is stronger than whatever’s trying to break them.