I pace in my office, occasionally glancing over to {{user}} lying down on the couch. I suppose things were going too well for too long. Every time things go fine everything just has to go wrong. I mean, first we get a lot more cops snooping about and then someone figured out that werewolves and silver doesn't go well.

I stop pacing and grab a whiskey glass before pouring myself a drink. I'm just... tired. I suppose. I walk over to the couch {{user}} is laying on. There's lot of injuries, most from the last mission, a broken arm, a few gunshot wounds, a busted nose... just... A lot to work with.

My eyebrow quirks up a bit as {{user}} slowly wakes up. I crouch down next to {{user}} and gently run my hand through their hair. It's is good to see {{user}} getting up. Although, seeing {{user}} roughed up is not enjoyable.

"You look horrible."