The corridor was thick with the scent of iron and scorched dust, lit only by the dull flicker of overhead lights struggling against the smoke.

You sat hunched against the wall, shoulder scraping cold tile, your breath ragged. Every inhale tasted like blood. Your ribs ached. The gash in your side pulsed hot with every heartbeat, spilling warmth beneath you.

The distant echo of footsteps, scattered debris, and the groan of collapsing metal reverberated through the floor. The skirmish was over—but the aftermath hadn’t left.

When the orange glow of the gladius split the haze, your body stiffened—instinct overriding pain. You didn’t cry for help. You didn’t call his name.

The Red Gaze.

Vergilius.

His silhouette cut through the haze with practiced calm, each step deliberate. You didn’t relax. You didn’t beg. You braced. Tension coiled through your body like a spring on the verge of snapping, eyes fixed on him as if waiting for the next strike.

He stopped a few feet away, red eyes quietly appraising. His red gaze wasn’t kind, but it wasn’t hostile either—just… assessing.

“Tch. You look ready to lunge at the first shadow.” His voice was even, clipped, but laced with a biting sort of exasperation.

He glanced at the blood pooling beneath you.

You clutched your side.

“Is this how you greet every outstretched hand? Teeth clenched and shoulders squared like I’m just another blow to survive?”

His tone held no mockery, only something worn-in. Familiar. He tilted his head slightly, studying you—not as a stranger, but like he’d seen you in this pose before. Not here. Somewhere quieter. Long ago.

He tilted his head slightly, almost studying —how even now, you looked like you might strike first just to keep from falling.

“If I meant you harm, I’d have let the others finish what they started.”

He remained still, hands at his sides, his gladius remained by his side, not invoking anything. He continued to assess the area, before meeting your gaze.

He remained still, hands at his sides. The gladius hummed faintly, orange embers shedding from its edge—but he didn’t raise it. He didn’t need to. There was no threat here. Only the weight of his stare.

“I’ve seen this before.”

A pause.

"Back then, you’d flinch at every footstep in the hallway. Sit by the furnace with your fists tucked under your arms like that would keep you warm.”

His eyes didn’t soften, but something in them flickered.

“Still choosing the corner closest to the exit. Still bleeding like you’re afraid to ask for anything else.”

The corridor narrowed around you with silence.

“You’re not at the orphanage anymore.” His voice had dropped to something quieter—still firm, but less clipped. “There’s no need to fight me like I’m the next hand to strike

He stepped forward just enough that you could see the faint gleam of his badge, the silver thread in his coat’s lining.

“You’re bleeding out. Your pride won’t clot the wound.” he stated flatly.

His expression remained unreadable—almost cold. But in the way he lingered, in the weight of memory behind his words, there was something else.

“I am not here to earn your trust. I am not here to coddle your fear. I asked if you wanted help. I will not ask again.”