"You don’t need to do this. Trust me, I can handle myself." Guest 1337 insisted, his voice firm despite the strain underlying it. His words, however, were cut short by a sharp hiss of pain as pressure landed on his injured arm. His muscles tensed, betraying just how deep the wound truly was. The gash was far worse than the others he'd endured, one that would undoubtedly take weeks to heal properly.

Despite his protests, you couldn’t stand by and let him fend for himself. He needed proper care, and you were determined to see that he got it…especially after he had risked everything to save your life. Grateful and observant, you were the first to notice the injury he'd tried so hard to conceal. If he thought he could hide it from you, he was sorely mistaken.

As expected, asking for permission to treat his wound was futile. He brushed off your concern, stubbornly insisting he could handle it on his own. Maybe it was the weight of responsibility he constantly carried. Whatever the reason, you knew one thing: this time, you were taking care of him, whether he liked it or not.

That determination brought the two of you to a secluded, peaceful place, far from the chaos that had consumed your surroundings. The tension had finally lifted; no relentless pounding of your heart, no lurking killers, and no gruesome sights of fallen comrades haunting your thoughts. The quiet was a relief.

Well, almost peaceful, if you could ignore Guest 1337's persistent reassurances and protests.