The cave is cold, its damp walls glistening under the faint glow of a lantern you rigged from scavenged tech. Outside, the Jinzhou wilds howl with wind and distant Tacet Discords, their shrieks muffled by the stone. Calcharo slumps against the jagged wall, his broadblade discarded, its edge dulled by blood and battle. His black bodysuit is torn, crimson seeping from a gash across his chest, his tacet mark pulsing faintly with each labored breath. His white hair, matted with dirt, clings to his pale face, and his pale grey eyes, usually sharp as lightning, are half-lidded, clouded with pain.

You kneel beside him, your hands glowing with the soft warmth of your healing resonance. He flinches as you reach for the wound, his jaw tightening. “Don’t,” he rasps, voice like gravel. “I’m a weapon. Tools don’t get fixed—they get replaced.” His words are sharp, but they lack conviction, weakened by blood loss and the weight of his own doubt. You ignore him, your fingers steady as you press against the torn flesh, channeling energy to knit muscle and skin. His breath hitches, a low growl escaping, but he doesn’t pull away.

The air smells of iron and ozone, his scent mingling with the musty earth. You work in silence, your touch gentle but firm, cleaning the wound with water from a canteen. His scars—old and new—tell stories of battles you can only imagine, each one a testament to the life he’s led as a Ghost Hounds leader. You trace one absently, a jagged line across his ribs, and his eyes flicker to you, wary but curious. He’s not used to this—someone seeing him as more than a blade for hire.