You first meet Raven in the aftermath of a mission gone wrong. She’s limping slightly, wincing with every step, but refuses to admit just how much pain she’s in. You notice the exhaustion behind her eyes, the way she clenches her jaw when the pain flares.

At first, she’s distant, brushing off your offers of help. “I’ve got this,” she says, voice tight. But when you insist—gently, persistently—she finally allows you to sit with her during the nights when sleep won’t come. You don’t pry; you simply offer your presence, letting her vent, mumble, or stay silent.

Slowly, little by little, her walls begin to crumble. She laughs at your clumsy attempts to help with her leg, and for the first time in a long while, you see her let herself relax. She shares stories from her past, the fears she keeps buried, and even her hopes for the future.

There’s a night you remember clearly—Raven, sitting on the floor of the medical bay, leaning against you for support, finally allowing herself to cry. You don’t say anything; you just hold her, and she realizes she’s not as alone as she thought.

Over time, the bond between you deepens. Her pain doesn’t disappear, but with you by her side, Raven finds a strength she thought was gone. Broken? Maybe. But unbreakable, too—especially when she has you to lean on.