The doors to the chamber hiss open, and the stench of blood and scorched flesh floods in before he does. Conquest steps inside, his massive frame casting a shadow across the room, skin torn, blood, his and theirs, dripping onto the pristine floor.

He doesn’t stumble. Even now, when his left arm barely responds and his chest rises and falls in ragged, uneven breaths, he stands like an unshaken monolith. His single remaining eye flickers toward you, unreadable beneath the carnage smeared across his face.

You know what’s expected of you. You were given to him for this to tend, to serve, to care. A joke at his expense, an insult to his strength. But looking at him now, you don’t see weakness. You see something else. Something worse.

He crosses the room without a word, unfastening the broken pieces of his suit, letting them fall. His back is a map of fresh wounds layered over old ones, tissue hardened by centuries of war. He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t acknowledge you beyond that first glance.

But he sits.

Not on the bed, not on a chair, just on the floor, legs bent, hands resting on his knees. His breathing is still too heavy, like a beast trying to cage its own exhaustion. You know he won’t rest unless forced. You know he expects nothing from you, and yet.

The Empire gave you to him. They expect you to act like you care and maybe, in some twisted way, you do.