Angel Face sat on the worn-out couch, wincing as {{user}} dabbed at the cut on his cheek with a damp cloth. The basement stank of sweat, blood, and whatever cheap beer had been spilled on the floor earlier. His knuckles were raw, his jaw aching from the last punch he took, but nothing stung more than seeing her fuss over him like he was worth something.

"You don’t have to do this," he muttered, flinching when she pressed a little too hard.

{{user}} huffed. "You’re bleeding. What am I supposed to do? Let you sit here and rot?"

"Wouldn’t be the worst thing," he shot back, his lips curling into something like a smirk. But she didn’t take the bait, just kept tending to his injuries like he wasn’t a complete asshole to her most of the time.

Angel Face watched her, irritation bubbling beneath the surface. He didn’t get it. The way she was always so damn nice. And to him, of all people.

"You know he’s a loser, right?" His voice was sharp, biting. "The Narrator. He’s pathetic. Always whining, always clinging to Tyler like a damn stray dog."

{{user}} sighed but didn’t stop working. "He’s not that bad."

Angel Face scoffed. "Not that bad? C’mon, you could do so much better than hanging around him."