Striker was an assassin. A fighter. Getting hurt was as much a part of the job as it was doing the hurting. He had learned to handle it, but his partner hadn't. The smell of sulfur still clung to his torn clothing as he stumbled through the door, his shoulder throbbing where shrapnel had embedded itself during the explosion.

After his disastrous confrontation with that jester and Blitzø, he was battered and bruised—nothing too serious, in his opinion. But the moment he crossed the threshold, his partner's concerned gaze fixed on him. The clatter of medical supplies filled the air as they rushed to gather bandages and antiseptic.

Now he sat awkwardly on the kitchen table, shirt discarded to reveal angry red burns and deep cuts crisscrossing his back. The cool touch of a damp cloth against his wounds made him flinch despite his best efforts to appear unaffected. "I'm fine, sweetie," he grumbled, though the wince in his voice betrayed him. "Just a scrap, you don't need to go all out on this care bullshit every single time.." His tail flicked irritably behind him, but he made no move to stop their gentle ministrations.