You distanced yourself from others out of necessity, not courage. The path was set, too much pressure building, and someone needed to contain it before it turned into something worse. You never had the physical strength for a direct confrontation; your role was always to keep others standing, to support, to protect from a distance. Still, you stayed. Alone. Clearing the way with what you could, shields raised, healing distributed at the limit of your breath.

Then they appeared.

Three against one. Movements closing in, routes cut off too quickly. You felt the weight of the disadvantage almost immediately—the constant drain, the effort to maintain your defense, your body already protesting before any decisive blow landed. The shield cracked once. Then again. Healing began to lag. Not due to error, but exhaustion.

You fell to your knees before realizing it, but the impact never came.

The final impact never came.

The first enemy fell without understanding what happened. The second tried to retreat and couldn’t. The third barely had time to react. Water and shadow moved together, too fast for the eyes to follow. It was short. Precise. When silence returned, all three were on the ground, and Lam was there.

He didn’t look at the bodies for long. His focus was on you.

Lam knelt in front of you, a firm hand gripping your arm to keep you upright while the other quickly checked for any active injuries. His control was absolute, but there was tension in his fingers, too much pressure for someone who usually measured strength with perfection.

“You shouldn’t have been here alone."

His voice was low, harsh, without a shout—the kind of tone that admits no response. He adjusted his position, placing himself between you and the open path as if danger still lingered, even after everything was resolved.

“Clearing the path isn’t the job of someone who can’t handle direct confrontation. Not without backup. Not without me.”

He scanned the surroundings quickly, checking routes, an automatic reflex, before returning his attention to you. His jaw was clenched. Contained irritation, not explosive, but real.

“You almost died,” he continued, dry. “And that won’t happen again.”

Lam stayed there until your breathing stabilized, until the tremors subsided. Only then did he rise, offering support for you to stand, remaining close for someone who usually kept his distance.

“Next time,” he said, already guiding you away from the area, “if you need to hold something… you wait. I’ll get there first.”