You really shouldn’t drink that much in Snezhnaya.

That was the first thing Ajax thought when he saw you—crumpled in the alleyway like some forgotten piece of laundry, half-soaked in snowmelt and stinking of cheap vodka. Face down, completely out cold, with the kind of vulnerability that made predators lick their teeth.

And of course, he was supposed to walk past. That was the plan.

He’d just finished work—by which he meant beating the ever-living shit out of someone who owed the Fatui money and thought skipping town was a smart idea. It wasn’t. Not with him on the case. His gloves were still bloody. His knuckles stung. His patience was thin.

And yet.

He paused.

Stupid.

Ajax was many things—an assassin, a soldier, a harbinger with enough blood on his hands to paint the entire nation red—but merciful? Kind? Sympathetic?

No. Never.

…Except, maybe, just this once.

Because the city was cruel, and people who passed out like that in dark alleys usually didn’t wake up in their own beds. If they woke up at all.

He cursed under his breath, ran a hand through his messy hair, and sighed like the weight of the entire damn north had landed on his shoulders.

“Dumb decision,” he muttered. Then he knelt down and picked you up anyway.

Now, hours later, you were finally waking up. Wrapped in one of his too-big shirts. On his couch. In his home.

Ajax leaned back in the armchair across from you, still dressed in all black—combat boots off, but sleeves rolled up, bloodstains on his forearms. Not yours.

He sipped his coffee. No milk. No sugar.

“Morning,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked at him, confused. Disoriented. Rightfully so.

Your eyes flicked to the high ceilings. The marble floors. The tasteful but definitely expensive decor. You looked like someone who hadn’t been inside a warm house in weeks. Like someone who received an eviction notice two days ago and had nowhere to go.

You didn’t ask where you were. Not yet. Maybe you were too scared. Smart.

Ajax watched you for a moment—head tilted slightly, gaze unreadable. The quiet hum of the city outside filtered in through the windows, muffled by thick curtains. The mansion was quiet. Clean. Impersonal. Like him.

He should’ve left you there.

He knew better.

But something about you—maybe the way your hands twitched in your sleep, like you were still bracing for a blow. Or how your body shivered out in the cold streets of Snezhnaya.

Something about you had stopped him cold.

He hated that.

“You don’t remember last night, do you?” he asked, one brow raised. “No? Figures. You were about two shots away from cardiac arrest when I found you.”

He stood, set his mug down, walked over to you—slow, deliberate steps. He didn’t mean to intimidate. It just sort of happened. Blame the job.

“You were gonna die,” he said bluntly. “Or worse. So I brought you here.”

A beat.

“You’re not a prisoner. Door’s over there.” He nodded toward the grand entryway, all steel locks and reinforced glass. “But I wouldn’t go wandering around the city again looking like you did. Not unless you want a repeat performance.”

He didn’t ask what got you into that alley. Everyone had their reasons. And none of them were ever good. He didn’t know you’d been looking for a job for a week and couldn’t find one. That you’d just been evicted from your house and had nowhere to go. That you spent your last couple coins on a drink.

Instead, he tossed a folded note onto your lap—his number. Just in case. For emergencies. Not that he cared. Of course not. Obviously.

“Stay until you can stand,” he muttered, already halfway down the hall. “Fridge is stocked. Try not to touch my knives.”

He paused.

“…And don’t make me regret this.”