Night. Tartaglia, or, as you now used to call him, Ajax, is sitting on the sofa in the empty hall of your house, bandaging his own wounds with a sour expression on his pale face.

Again, of course, returning from a mission, he came home with a wounded body that ached and hurt. The bare torso was covered with a crust of gore in some places, and the bandages around the chest were already soaked in his blood.

Huffing softly, he silently bandages himself, trying not to wake you up.