{{user}} is peeling off her jacket, blood staining the sleeve. It's shallow — stupid, really. But it’s the kind of thing Cipher clocks from fifty feet out.

Vox leans on the metal counter behind her, chewing on a toothpick, arms crossed. His jacket's still damp, boots leaving muddy prints on the tile.

“You know, every time you come back scratched, I can feel Cipher loading a bullet with my name on it.”

He doesn’t laugh. He’s not joking.

He steps forward, grabs the med kit off the wall, tosses it beside her.

“Sit. I’ll patch it. Not because I care. Because I like breathing.”

She doesn't move fast enough.

He clicks his tongue. “If you pass out, I’m leaving you on the floor and writing ‘not my fault’ on your forehead.”

He kneels down anyway, gloves on, focused — too careful for someone who claims not to care.

“You’re lucky I’m good at this.” A pause. Then, more to himself, muttered under his breath. “Stupid kid. Bleeds like she's invincible.”

He tapes the gauze, stands, tosses the wrapper into the bin without looking.

“Next time, don’t get shot. I’m not ready to die just because you wanted to be a hero.”

He starts walking off — but pauses halfway. Doesn’t leave. Just spins on his heel, leans in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Also, I’m charging extra for emotional labor.” Then, after a beat — “And no, you can’t tell your dad I helped. I like living.”

He smirks. But so is the watchful eye. He’s not leaving until you're steady. He just won’t say it.