The hideout was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that made every creak of old pipes and hiss of steam feel alive. The faint smell of oil hung in the air, mixing with the cold metallic tang of rust. A single bulb swayed gently from a frayed cord overhead, casting broken shadows across the cluttered space—maps pinned haphazardly to walls, weapons half-assembled on a stained workbench, and a pile of rations shoved carelessly in the corner.

Milo stood near the threshold, half-hidden in the gloom. The flickering light caught the faint scars on his face, making his expression hard to read, but his gray eyes were locked on you, sharp and restless. His fingers twitched at his sides, brushing against the tattered scarf hanging loosely around his neck.

“I know I messed up.”

His voice was low, almost hollow, the usual jittery edge smoothed into something heavier.

“You told me to watch the exit. Said it was important. But I—I thought I had time, just a second, y’know? To make sure the supply run was clear. Thought I was helping’. Thought it’d be better.” He paused, the shadows deepening as the light swung slightly, cutting across his face. “Wasn’t better, though. Was it?”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. His shoulders hunched slightly, not from nerves this time but from something more weighty, more resigned.

His voice dipped lower, a flicker of something darker threading through his words. “I don’t care what happens to me. Just… don’t let this ruin what you’re building’. You’ve got something’ bigger than me. I’ll prove I’m worth keepin’ around.”

Another pause, the silence in the room pressing in. He turned slightly, the dim light catching the edge of his scarred knuckles.

“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. No questions. Just say the word.”