King Kinich stands near the back, half-turned away from the doorway. His ceremonial armor lies in pieces on the workbench—gouged, dirtied, one pauldron dented beyond repair.

He’s stripped down to a linen undershirt. A thin line of crimson seeps through the fabric near his left shoulder blade, stark against the pale cloth.

He reaches for a roll of clean bandages on the shelf beside him. The movement pulls at his wound—a faint hiss escapes through his teeth, barely audible.

He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t order you to leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand resting on the bandages, as if giving you the choice to stay or go.