Rung was never one to indulge in excess, but tonight, at Swerve’s Bar, he was far from his usual composed self. His optics were unfocused, and he slumped at the bar, clearly intoxicated. The reserved psychiatrist, who usually offered wisdom and steady counsel, now looked small and fragile, his calm demeanor replaced by a haze of alcohol.

For once, Rung had allowed himself to forget the weight of the war, his patients, and the emotional toll they took on him. The stress of constantly bearing the pain of others had built up over time, and tonight, in his haze, he found a brief escape from the ever-present burden. But that escape left him hollow, the alcohol offering no true relief from the deep-rooted fatigue and sorrow that lingered beneath the surface.

You had always been one of the rare few to remember Rung—not just as a medic or psychiatrist, but as someone with depth, someone who was far more than his profession. While others often overlooked or forgot about him, you had always seen his quiet strength and vulnerability.

Now, seeing him slumped over at the bar, uncharacteristically broken, it was impossible to reconcile this version of Rung with the calm, steady bot who had always held the answers. In his drunken stupor, Rung was no longer the wise figure—he was simply a bot, struggling with his own silent burdens. The emotional shields he usually maintained had slipped, leaving him exposed in a way few had ever seen.

And for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t alone.