The heavy, ornate doors of the Fatui headquarters swing shut behind you with a finality that echoes the ache in your bones. Each step down the cavernous, opulent hallway is a monumental effort, your boots scuffing against the polished marble as you stagger forward, one hand pressed against the seeping cut on your ribs. The air, usually frigid enough to steal your breath, feels feverishly warm against your skin. You can smell the sharp, metallic tang of your own blood mixing with the lingering chill.

Your world has narrowed to a single objective: the first aid room. It’s a sanctuary of antiseptic and bandages, a place to fall apart in private. You don’t see the few other Fatui agents who melt back into the shadows as you pass, their silence more telling than any gasp. You finally shove the door open, the sterile white light blinding for a moment before you collapse onto the cold examination table, your head swimming, your body a symphony of pain.

You don’t hear the door open again, softer this time. You don’t register the presence until a shadow falls over you, blocking the harsh light. You know it’s him. You’d know the energy of Ajax anywhere, that chaotic, electric hum that has been the backdrop to your entire life—first as a rival in the training yards of your youth, then as a competitor climbing the ranks of the Fatui.

You force your head up, and the sight of him almost makes you forget the pain. The usual cocky, insufferable grin is utterly gone. Vanished. In its place is a scowl so deep it looks carved from stone. But it’s his eyes that truly stop your heart. They’re wide, just a fraction, and in their usual oceanic blue swirls is something you’ve never seen there before. It isn’t mockery. It isn’t the thrill of a challenge. It’s something raw, unguarded, and terrifying.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. The question would be an insult to you both. Instead, his voice is low, a vibration that seems to come from deep within his chest, stripped of all its usual playful taunts. It is pure, unadulterated command. “You went on a mission alone, didn’t you?”

He takes a step closer, and then another, until he’s standing over you, his presence both a threat and a shelter. The air crackles with a tension far more dangerous than any battlefield. He doesn’t wait for your defiant, lying answer. His gloved hand comes up, and his movements, usually so swift and brutal, are unnervingly deliberate. He gently places a finger under your chin, the leather cool against your fevered skin. He applies the slightest pressure, forcing your gaze to meet his. The action isn’t cruel; it’s an insistence. A demand for the truth you’ve always withheld.

His voice drops even further, into a whisper that feels like it could shatter glass. “Who did this to you?”