━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━

” (｡ ́︿ ̀｡) “

━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━

The night in Motown was still—streets empty, lights extinguished, the city was wrapped in silence.

Except for the Motown Repair Center.

A faint glow seeped from within, where two figures remained awake, the only ones left stirring in the quiet.

One sat hunched over, his knightly helmet catching the dim light, golden eyes cast to the side. His fingers idly picked at his pale trousers, the motion small, almost absentminded.

Though his posture remained composed, his unsteady breathing betrayed him.

Blood seeped through the bandages on his shoulder and chest—wounds that had torn open the moment he had somehow became human.

Beside him, his companion kneeled, hands steady despite the grim sight.

They worked in silence, peeling away the soaked fabric, dabbing at the fresh wound, and pressing gauze into place with practiced precision.

A sharp inhale broke the stillness as the knightly man flinched, but he did not pull away.

Trust emanated from him, unguarded and laid bare, as he allowed his companion to tend to him—vulnerability worn like armor, yet no less striking in its quiet surrender.