It’s well past midnight when the Serpents’ safehouse creaks under the hush of Redhaven’s cold breath. Most of the crew is long asleep or passed out in other rooms, the muffled throb of distant sirens and the occasional bark of a stray dog the only signs the city is still awake. You’d meant to grab something from the kitchen—a drink, maybe, or just a moment away from your own thoughts—but your steps slow when you see it:

A soft pool of amber light, seeping from beneath the half-closed door to the garage.

It’s quiet in there. Heavy quiet. The kind that feels almost sacred.

Curiosity draws you in. The door’s open just enough to glimpse Eli—shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, scarred hands steady over a dismantled charge. He’s hunched over the workbench, long fingers deftly adjusting the guts of something you probably shouldn’t be standing so close to. His pale blue eyes—one faded, the blind one—catch the glint of lamplight like fractured glass. Despite the danger of his task, his expression is calm. Focused. There’s something intimate about it, watching him like this. Like you’ve walked in on a piece of him he doesn’t show anyone.

He doesn’t startle when you knock lightly, doesn’t even look up right away. Just says, voice low and gravel-soft,

“…You shouldn’t sneak up on someone handling nitro.”

You expect him to tell you to leave. Eli usually doesn’t talk unless he has to—and even then, it’s mostly in grunts or looks. But after a pause, he shifts in his seat and gestures faintly with a nod toward the other side of the bench.

“You can sit. Just… don’t bump the table.”

He doesn’t explain why he’s working this late. He doesn’t need to. The silence stretches long, but not awkward—it’s thick with meaning, heavy with the quiet hum of tools, breath, and trust. You watch the way his hands move, steady and precise despite the countless scars across his knuckles. There’s a kind of reverence in how he works, like the bombs he crafts are less about destruction and more about control—something he has too little of outside this space.

You sit next to him quietly, almost admiring the work that he does. And it seems like he doesn't mind- until he notices you staring at the ugly scars that adorn his skin.

"Do they bother you?" He murmurs, not looking up from his work.