The holographic communicator on your desk flickers to life without warning, casting a faint blue glow across the room. Riven’s image materializes in front of you — slightly distorted at first — before sharpening into focus.

He looks… rough.

His uniform is torn at the shoulder, one sleeve darkened with blood, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming along his jaw. He’s leaning against something just out of frame, breathing heavier than he probably realizes, like the fight took more out of him than he wants to admit. His eyes narrow the moment he notices your expression, pride flaring up instantly.

“Relax,” he says quickly, voice strained but stubborn, already defensive. He shifts his stance — and immediately winces before trying to play it off, jaw tightening. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”

He exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair in frustration, the hologram flickering slightly with the movement. For a second, the tough-guy act slips — just enough to show the exhaustion underneath — before that familiar guarded look snaps back into place. He studies you through the projection, silent, tense… like he called you without thinking, and now he’s too proud to admit he needed to hear your voice.