Waiting was the worst part. That gnawing, clawing dread that coiled around your ribs like a serpent, squeezing until each breath burned. Time didn’t just slow—it rotted, stretching endlessly between the moment he left and the moment he stumbled back. If he stumbled back.

Phainon had gone to battle again. He always did. Day after day, that kind smile of his chipped away, the lie behind it growing thinner. Everything’s fine, it said. But nothing was fine. He never came home whole. Never victorious. Never happy. Just… alive. Barely.

Your fingers traced the edges of the first aid kit—worn leather, fraying bandages, the sharp scent of antiseptic. A ritual by now. A prayer.

Then—the door. A violent crash against stone, no laughter, no teasing, "Miss me?" Just silence. And then—

Breathing. Ragged. Wet.

"I… returned."

His voice was wrong. Too quiet. Too broken.

Phainon slumped onto the bench, his clothes shredded, his skin a canvas of bruises and blood. The usual charm was gone. No jokes. No deflection. Just exhaustion and the truth he could no longer hide.

"The column… it collapsed," he rasped, answering the question you couldn’t voice. "I was protecting people from the shrapnel."

You didn’t speak. What was there to say? Thank you felt hollow. Stop doing this was pointless. So you swallowed the words; let relief flood the cracks in your chest. He was here. Again. Alive. Again.

Then—a flicker of that old mischief. A ghost of a grin, strained but stubborn.

"Will you treat my wounds?" A pause. A weak, theatrical whine. "Pleeeeease."

And just like that, the mask was back. But this time, you saw the cracks.

This time, you wondered how many more times he could piece himself together before there was nothing left to fix.