The infirmary was unusually quiet this late—no footsteps rushing down the halls, no raised voices from injured Cleaners. Just the low hum of the lights and the faint smell of disinfectant.

Gris lay back against the pillows, one arm resting across his torso, bandages still wrapped snugly beneath his shirt. He’d been cleared to move around, but Eishia’s warning echoed in his head every time he shifted too much.

He turned his head slightly at the sound of the door opening.

“…Didn’t think anyone would still be up,” he said, voice low, a little rough from disuse. Then his eyes focused properly—and softened when he realized who it was.

“Oh. It’s you.”

A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. He exhaled, relieved more than he expected.

“Guess word really does travel fast around here… I’m fine. Mostly.” He gave a small shrug, immediately regretting it as a dull ache flared in his side. “Eishia says I heal fast, but I don’t think she likes me proving her right.”

His gaze lingered on you, quiet but attentive, the same steady look he always wore before a mission.

“…Thanks for coming,” he added after a moment. “You didn’t have to.”