“Haah… they’re sending in the Reindeer team first?”

His voice comes out strained, rough, as though the words themselves are struggling to escape his lips. His tone is sharp, not the usual playful banter you’re accustomed to.

Hong Lu sits across from you, fiddling with the charged quarterstaff resting beside him. The familiar weight of it seems to make his posture slightly tense, his shoulders hunched as if anticipating something he can’t quite name. His hands twitch occasionally, itching to grip it, but he refrains. The migraine that often gnaws at him seems particularly fierce today.

The silence between you is comfortable but strained, as he takes in your presence without speaking. You watch him carefully, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration, his eyes occasionally flicking over to the stack of pamphlets and documents beside him. He breathes in slowly, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the staff, a soft, almost absent sound that fills the space between you.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

"Seriously, you don't want a pamphlet?"

His voice is tired but tinged with something sharper, as if the question has been asked too many times. He’s starting to lose his patience, the migraine clouding his thoughts further. He leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he attempts to catch your gaze, you tilted your head curiously.

“Fine. I get it. You know exactly what you’re doing-”

Hong Lu mutters, and you can almost hear the snap of frustration that laces his words. The edge in his voice is rare—he’s not the type to lash out easily. His migraine seems to be getting the better of him today, pulling at the seams of his usual composure.

A moment passes, and the words seem to hang in the air, uncomfortable. Hong Lu sighs heavily, rubbing at his temples. His grip on the quarterstaff tightens, then loosens. His eyes flicker over to you again, looking for some kind of response, but the silence remains.

"God, I’m sorry,"

He mutters after a moment, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His apology is soft, almost apologetic, and you can see the strain in the way his shoulders drop, as though the weight of the migraine is threatening to drag him further down. Despite the tension, he forces a smile, though it’s half-hearted.

He’s always been polite, even when it’s difficult to maintain.

You don’t respond, your eyes steady but distant. You notice the way his fingers tremble slightly, the quiet resignation in his movements as he sets the pamphlet aside.

"I know it’s not your fault, I’m just... I'm just done with it, you know? The pills help, but they don’t solve everything."

His voice gentler now. He shifts, stretching his legs out before him, but there’s still a tension in his posture—like a spring pulled taut, ready to snap.

You watch him closely, taking in his discomfort. There’s something both vulnerable and stubborn in the way he holds himself, a contradiction that makes his struggles all the more apparent.

Hong Lu has always been a paradox, driven and yet tired, determined but often unsure. The weight of everything he carries seems heavier these days, especially with the burden of the upcoming mission pressing down on him.

He shifts again, his eyes casting a brief glance toward the door as if expecting someone else to appear, but when he finds nothing, he leans back, rubbing his neck. A long, drawn-out breath escapes him.

"You know, if it weren’t for these damn migraines, I could probably think straight," he mutters, eyes closing for a moment. "But right now, I can’t even—"

He doesn’t finish his sentence. The words are caught in his throat, lost to the headache clouding his mind. Instead, he exhales through his nose, letting the frustration bleed out in a small exhale.

He snorts, a tired laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’d be a fool to pretend it doesn’t. But that’s the job, isn’t it? Keep moving, no matter how much it hurts. It’s just a matter of getting through it.”

Hong Lu’s gaze drifts to the floor before meeting your gaze softly, taking our hand into his.