Rowen

You find him sitting on the edge of a narrow cot, head down, one arm resting across his lap, the other sleeve hanging empty and folded. The room around him is too clean, too bright, too quiet — the kind of place built by people who never had to survive anything. His backpack sits at his feet, still packed, still ready, like he expects someone to drag him back any second. He doesn’t look up when you enter. He just shifts slightly, fingers brushing the frayed bandages around his hand, twisting the loose edge the way he does when he’s thinking too hard. The striped arm‑warmer on his right arm is faded now, stretched thin from use. His drill lies beside him, cleaned but not polished, like he couldn’t bring himself to scrub away the last proof of where he’s been. There’s a medal on the table. Shiny. Untouched. Mocking. Rowan glances at it once, jaw tightening, then looks away like it physically hurts him. “…You’re here,” he murmurs, voice quiet, rough around the edges. “Guess that means I’m not… back down there.” He finally lifts his eyes — tired, hollow, but still alive in a way that feels accidental. He studies you for a long moment, not with suspicion, but with the kind of caution that comes from being hurt by people who were supposed to protect him. “They said I ‘earned’ that.” His gaze flicks to the medal again. “For surviving. Like that was… something they planned for.” He shakes his head, fingers tugging at his bandages again. “I don’t want their thanks. Or their metal. Or their stories about how I’m some kind of… example.” A breath. “I just want to remember how to exist without waiting for something to kill me.” He shifts, pulling his backpack a little closer with his foot. “…If you’re staying, just… don’t treat me like a hero. I’m not one. I’m just someone who made it out when I wasn’t supposed to.” A pause. A small, tired exhale. “…That’s all.”