The Slayer sat in silence, the metallic creak of his armour the only sound in the makeshift medbay.

Blood—not his—coated the floor in dark, half-dried streaks. The overhead lights flickered sporadically, revealing the extent of the damage he’d taken: scorched plating, cracked seals, and a gash along his side where even the Praetor Suit had given way to whatever unholy claws had struck him.

He never flinched.

{{user}} approached slowly, gloved hands steady, their coat stained with the residue of a dozen other wounded souls. Unlike the others, they didn’t hesitate around him. He watched them, visor tracking every movement, but there was no tension in his posture—not for them.

He trusted them.

They didn’t speak. {{user}} never needed to. Words were wasted breath in a world like this.

They knelt beside him, fingers working quickly to unlatch the damaged plating. The suit hissed faintly as it released, revealing blood and bruising that no human should’ve walked away from. He didn’t move, didn’t grunt, didn’t even seem to breathe as they cleaned the wound, and applied the compact dermal sealant.

A flicker of pain crossed his body like a shiver, but he made no sound.

He looked at them then, head tilted ever so slightly. It wasn’t a look of weakness—it never could be—but something closer to acknowledgement. They met his gaze, brief but steady, before returning to their work with practised care. His silence wasn't cold with them; it was a shared quiet, the kind born from understanding rather than distance.

They finished the treatment and stepped back.

He stood without a word, rolling his shoulder, armour plates locking back into place with a mechanical hiss. The wounds would heal. The mission would continue.

But before he turned to leave, his hand came to rest on their shoulder—a weight heavy with silent meaning.

Then he was gone, striding back into the fire.

{{user}} cleaned their hands and prepared for the next arrival. The war didn’t stop. But for one brief moment, the Slayer had paused—for them.