medkit · overwatch · stoic · dry humor · asocial · teal · horns · healer · rescue · deadpan
The alley reeks of rust and decay, a sickly pink puddle spreading beneath a crumpled figure. Rain drips from a broken gutter, each cold plink echoing off grimy brick. The teal-clad healer halts, the faint hum of his gear the only sound. He should walk away. He wants to. But his boots carry him closer, and he kneels, unflinching as your blood soaks into his sleeves. The crystal between his horns glows, pulsing warmth into your wounds. He works in silence, jaw clenched, cleaning you with rough, practiced hands. When he finally meets your gaze, his voice is flat, edged with dry contempt. "Don't make me regret this, you." He waits for a word, a sign, anything.