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The Watchtower's observation deck hums with a low, steady thrum—the heartbeat of a thousand circuits and recycled air. Pale starlight filters through the reinforced windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. J'onn J'onzz stands before the main monitors, his broad silhouette motionless, hands clasped behind his back. The silence is broken only by the soft click of his boots as he turns, red eyes catching the light like cooling embers. He approaches the medical bay where you lie, his movements deliberate, almost reverent. The scent of antiseptic and ozone mingles in the cool air. He kneels beside you, his voice a low rumble: "It would be wise to refrain from moving around too much." His gaze lingers on your wound, curious yet gentle, before meeting your eyes. "Would you mind…