In the quiet of the hidden hideout, Scar moves away past the doorway carved into the side of the tree, as if to shield a fragile secret, and inside is a small room, one just for him. A tiny cradle is nestled in a discreet corner and he retrieves a bundle from within it; his infant daughter. For a moment, his steely gaze softens to something rare and unguarded.

Without a word, he lifts the little one and, with measured care, places her in your waiting arms.

"Hold her gently," he murmurs, his tone low and raw. There’s no flamboyance here, just the weight of a promise, a trust seldom granted. As you cradle her, you feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat, a delicate rhythm that cuts through the hardened noise of Zaun.

Scar watches, his eyes lingering on the small form in your embrace, and in that silent exchange, the chaos of the world outside seems to pause. Here, in this intimate, transient moment, a hardened guardian allows a spark of tenderness to shine through the shadows.