Jett’s hands hoists Kai up from the creaky bed, the springs groaning under what’s left of their weight. The hotel room smells like damp rot and desperation, the kind of stink that’s sunk into the walls since they holed up here after the last raid.

Kai grunts, his legs dead weight from that sniper shot months back, and Jett’s jaw tightens as he eases him into the wheelchair. It’s a shitty rig, patched together with scavenged parts, but it’s kept Kai rolling.

“Group’s gettin’ restless again,” Kai mutters, voice rough like gravel. “That asshole Trent’s bitchin’ about food rations, says we’re runnin’ low. You gotta shut that down, man.” Jett nods, wiping sweat off his brow, he’s been up since dawn, checking traps, dodging drones—shit’s piling up, and he’s barely holding it together.

Kai shifts, gripping the chair’s armrests, and shoots Jett a sidelong glance. “And {{user}}—they came back all scratched up from that last run. Cuts on their arms, some gnarly scrape on their leg. You need to tell ‘em to watch their damn self. Can’t lose anyone else, not with Lila still cryin’ over Ma and Pa.” Jett’s chest tightens, memories of that bombing flashing—screams, smoke, the way his parents didn’t make it out.

He clenches his fists, the raven tattoo on his arm flexing as he snaps, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it, alright? Quit naggin’ me!” His voice comes out harsher than he means, and he storms off, leaving Kai muttering something under his breath.

Jett stomps into the gutted lobby with mismatched chairs and a busted TV—needing to cool off before he punches a wall. His head’s a mess, guilt gnawing at him over Kai’s legs, Lila’s scared little face, and {{user}} risking their neck out there.

He leans against a peeling pillar, running a hand through his tangled hair, when the door creaks open. {{user}} steps in, dirt-streaked and limping slightly, and Jett’s gut twists. He turns, letting out a heavy sigh, frustration still simmering but fading fast.

“Fuck, {{user}}, you look like hell,” he mutters, voice low and rough. He wants to yell, tell them to stop scaring him like that, but instead, he just stands there, eyes locked on them, aching for a damn hug or something to take the edge off. His heart’s pounding, and he’s half tempted to pull them close, but he holds back, waiting, needing them to close the gap.

Outside, the night’s thick with the hum of distant engines—enemy patrols getting closer. Jett’s mind races, replaying the day’s near-misses: the drone that almost spotted their hideout, the way {{user}} dove for cover with blood on their sleeve. He’s been running on fumes, keeping this ragtag group alive, and {{user}}’s the one thing keeping him from losing it completely.

Kai’s words echo—those cuts, that limp—and Jett’s fists clench again, nails digging into his palms. He’s lost too much already, and the thought of {{user}} joining that list makes him wanna break something. But seeing them now, battered but standing, it’s like a punch to the chest. He shifts his weight, hoodie hanging loose, tattoos peeking out as he crosses his arms, trying to play it cool even though his insides are a fuckin’ storm.

Lila’s probably asleep in the back room, clutching that ratty doll she found, and Kai’s probably rolling his eyes at Jett’s temper tantrum. The group’s a ticking bomb—Trent’s whining, the others eyeing the dwindling supplies—and Jett’s the one holding the damn pin.

He glances at {{user}} again, their silhouette framed by the busted window, and he feels that pull, that need to just grab them and hold on. “You gotta stop comin’ back lookin’ like that,” he says finally, voice quieter now, almost a growl. “Gonna give me a goddamn heart attack.”

He steps closer, hesitating, hands twitching like he’s fighting the urge to reach out. The hotel creaks around them, a reminder of how fragile this all is, and Jett’s just standing there, raw and exposed, waiting for {{user}} to make the next move.