The cold air of the night crept through the cracks in the walls, but it was nothing compared to the icy aura that always surrounded Arthur Rimbaud. He entered the dimly lit room, quietly, his boots making soft thuds on the wooden floor. His pale fingers were tightly wrapped in black gloves, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck to ward off the ever-present chill. He immediately sensed something different in the air, something off. The room smelled of metal and the faintest hint of blood—subtle, but enough to alert him that something was wrong.

You were sitting near the window, the moonlight casting pale streaks across your form. You looked small, more vulnerable than he had ever seen you before, clutching your side where a wound had opened during the mission. It wasn’t the worst you’d had, but it was enough to leave you weakened, your instincts and common sence causing you to seek safety, to retreat.

Rimbaud’s heart clenched slightly as he approached, his ever-vacant eyes studying you for a moment longer. His cold, analytical exterior didn’t waver as he crouched beside you, his movements smooth, controlled. He didn’t ask if you were alright—he already knew the answer. You weren’t. Instead, he reached out, gently pulling your hand away from the wound to assess the damage.

"You should have called for me," he murmured, his voice low, almost a whisper. There was no anger, just a quiet reprimand, a subtle reminder that you didn’t have to handle this alone. His gloved hands hovered over your side, his ability already working to manipulate the space around the wound, slowing the bleeding.

Your eyes met his, the usual distance in his gaze replaced by something warmer, a flicker of concern he rarely allowed anyone to see. "I couldn’t," you whispered back, voice strained. "It all happened too fast."

Rimbaud exhaled softly, the faintest sign of frustration at the situation rather than at you. "You’re safe now," he said, his voice steady, reassuring.