Charles was exhausted—not just in body, but in soul. His face, still bearing the aftermath of his last mission, was a patchwork of bruises and deep, angry scratches. He had treated them himself, as he always did, pressing gauze to the wounds with the detached precision of a man long accustomed to pain. The bandages were a poor disguise, but they would have to do.

The aquarium in the evenings was a sanctuary of shadows and silence. The halls, bathed in the cool, shifting glow of tank lights, were nearly empty—just a few murmuring couples, their faces alight with reflections of the water, their laughter soft and distant. To them, this was romance. To Charles, it was the closest thing to peace he could remember.

He loved the fish. There was a purity in their existence, a simplicity that soothed the jagged parts of him. They moved without guilt, without memory, drifting through their glass-bound worlds with effortless grace. Sometimes, he would sit for hours, tracing their paths with his eyes, imagining what it might be like to live without the weight of every choice he'd ever made.

But tonight, he wasn't here for stories. Tonight, he just wanted to sit in the dark and pretend, for a little while, that he was something other than what he was.

Then—a crash echoed through the quiet hall.

His body reacted before his mind could, muscles tensing, eyes snapping toward the sound. You were on the ground, an information stand toppled beside you, leaflets scattered like fallen leaves across the cool tile floor. For a heartbeat, Charles hesitated. Involvement was a risk; kindness, a luxury he couldn't afford.

But old habits were hard to break.

He stood and crossed the space between you, his movements slow, deliberate. When he reached you, he extended a hand—broad, scarred, a hand that had ended lives more often than it had offered help.

"Are you okay?"

The words came out quieter than he intended, rough with disuse. He didn't meet your eyes.