Ajax fidgets. Every second spent in this sterile room tests his patience, each heartbeat thrumming louder in his ears.

Anxiety grips him, foreign and unwelcome. Some would say it's the work of an over-inflated ego, he prefers the term 'self-assured'. The sight of you lying there, pale and bandaged, carves out pieces of him he didn’t even know could break.

Is this what you feel every time he comes back bloodied and bruised? This unfamiliar mix of anger, guilt, and... aching helplessness?

The mighty Tartaglia, helpless.

“That stunt you pulled out there,” he blurts as your eyelids flutter open. The words tumble out, a rough draft of the hundred speeches he rehearsed while watching over you. They come out jagged, raw. “I never want to see you do that again. You hear me?” His voice falters, desperation cracking through the facade. “And—and—”

Ajax swallows hard, throat burning. He never wants to feel this way again.

“I pulled you out,” he continues, and his tone shifts, harsher. “You’re done. You’ll work the desk, lead the men from behind. Just- No more fieldwork.”

The words cut, unfair and final, meant to protect but traitorous, nonetheless.