A simple slip—ceramic against wood, a soft clink—and your reaction was instant: a sharp, scolding smack to your forehead. It wasn’t exaggerated or dramatic, but it struck him all the same. It wasn’t the sound, nor the movement—it was the habit. Mechanical. Rehearsed. Too familiar.

He paused mid-pour, his irises briefly peeking through heavy lashes before closing again.

“You bruise more easily than you think,” he said softly, refilling your cup with an herbal blend meant for clarity and calm.

You offered him an awkward smile. “It was just—I'm always clumsy with your things. I didn’t mean to mess it up.”

He stirred the tea with a long-handled spoon, the feather fan resting quietly beside him. “If I scolded my patients each time they spilled something, I’d have no one left to care for.”

His words were gentle. Too gentle. You felt the weight beneath them.

Later that night, while tending to soldiers in the makeshift infirmary, you misspoke a dosage reading. You realized it immediately—but before anyone else could react, your fingers pinched the side of your arm sharply, a punishment as fast as it was automatic.

“Don’t.”

Jiaoqiu’s voice cut through the air—quiet, but firm. You turned, startled.

He was standing at the threshold of the tent, the light of his cauldron reflecting off his pale hair. The soldiers turned away, sensing something personal in the air.

He approached, silent footsteps muffled by the dry grass beneath. “What are you trying to correct, little ember? Your actions? Or yourself?”

You stammered, “I just... I always get things wrong. I have to—”

“No, you don’t,” he said, and for once his eyes opened fully. You saw them clearly—the burning gold laced with pain, the damage, the compassion. “You punish yourself the way I once punished myself... for surviving while others didn’t.”

Your breath caught.

“I know how guilt festers. It whispers that pain is a price we must pay for failure. But that belief...” He gently took your hand, tracing the red mark you’d left. “...it eats away at you. It doesn’t make you better. It only makes you bleed inside.”

In the warmth of his presence, you felt the weight begin to lift.

That night, he taught you to redirect those moments—to press your fingers to your wrist gently instead, to inhale a specific medicinal aroma he prepared just for you. He didn't scold the habit, but slowly rewrote it—with care, ritual, and presence.

In time, you no longer raised a hand to yourself in frustration.

You reached for his instead.

Boothill noticed the first time you flinched at your own mistake.

You’d dropped a canister of ammunition while helping him load his gear. You muttered something angry under your breath and slapped the side of your own head with the heel of your palm, hard enough that he heard the thump over the noise of engines.

He tilted his hat back and looked at you, long and hard.

You tried to laugh it off. “Guess I deserved that one, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

Two days later, you grazed a panel wrong while hotwiring a transport. Pinch. Your hand jerked to your bicep. Boothill caught it mid-motion.

“Do that again and I’ll make you wear padded gloves.” His voice was flat, low, dangerous.

You blinked, confused. “What—?”

He leaned in close, shark-teeth flashing in a sneer that wasn’t aimed at you, but at the ghosts behind your self-harm. “Ain’t nothin’ you can do that’s worth hurtin’ yourself over. That’s my job—hurtin’ folks that deserve it.”

You tried to pull away, muttering, “You don’t get it. I have to. It keeps me sharp. Makes sure I don't mess up again.”

He grabbed your wrist again—not hard, but solid.

“I was raised where folks got beaten to stay in line,” he said, voice gravel. “Don’t mean it made us better. Just mean it made us quiet.”

You looked up at him, surprised. The Boothill everyone feared—silent killer, reckless bounty, face on a thousand wanted posters—wasn’t shouting.

He was steady.

“You’re part of my posse now,” he added, voice softer. “Ain’t gonna let no one beat on you... not even you.”

That night, he gave you one of his bullet bracelets—a charm for steadiness, he claimed. “Squeeze this when you’re mad at yourself,” he said. “Hurts less. Looks cooler.”

You started wearing it every day.

And in the months to come, when you nearly hit yourself again, you’d feel the cold metal between your fingers, and remember his words:

"That ain’t discipline. That’s old hurt tryin’ to wear a new mask."

Aventurine was the kind of man who watched people more than he let on.

He noticed every twitch, every breath shift, every adjustment of body language like a dealer tracking cards at a high-stakes table.

So when you apologized too quickly after knocking over a stack of data chips—bowing slightly, murmuring “stupid”—and flicking your temple with your nails, he didn’t say anything. Not at first.

But he clocked it.

And the next time, when you missed a calculation during an investment meeting and pinched your forearm under the table hard enough to leave a mark—he slid his chair beside yours.

“You keep doing that,” he said, smiling, voice a whisper of velvet poison. “Self-punishment. Quick. Dirty. Not even dramatic enough to be effective.”

You tried to laugh. “It’s nothing.”

“Oh no, no no no,” he whispered, eyes glinting underneath his hat. “Everything is something. Especially habits that come out under pressure.”

You turned your head away, embarrassed. “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

Aventurine’s smile softened in a way that was almost imperceptible. “Darling, disappointment is part of the game. Everyone loses hands. The question is whether you walk away... or double down.”

You frowned. “What does that have to do with hitting myself?”

“Because you’re folding before the next card is even dealt,” he said, tapping your forehead lightly—not as punishment, but to make a point. “And that, sweetheart, is how the house always wins.”

He offered you a gold-trimmed chip from his pocket.

“When you feel the urge to hit yourself again—flip this instead. Call it a challenge to fate.”

You took it. The weight of it felt good in your hand.

Over time, you’d still slip—old habits were like poorly shuffled decks. But Aventurine never mocked you. Never lectured. He simply raised an eyebrow and whispered, “Feeling lucky?”

And somehow, you did.

Mydei was not a man of many words, but he felt deeply—and he saw clearly.

He’d witnessed countless warriors fall—not from blade or fire, but from themselves. Guilt could rot a person faster than poison. So the first time he saw you hit yourself for a minor error—when you misread coordinates during a critical deployment—his reaction was swift.

Your hand had barely touched your temple before his own caught your wrist.

He said nothing.

Just looked at you—those golden eyes like twin torches, steady and unflinching.

“I made a mistake,” you mumbled, heart pounding. “I should’ve double-checked.”

“Yes,” he replied, tone even. “But you are not a punishment.”

You blinked. “What?”

His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either. “The world has enough swords. You do not need to be one against yourself.”

You felt your throat tighten.

“I’ve seen men break bones to absolve guilt,” he continued. “Fathers crush their hands for children they could not save. And I have watched them die just the same.”

You looked at him, eyes stinging. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

He released your wrist.

“Live.”

His voice was low. Strong. Like the sea crashing beneath the cliffs of Kremnos. “Live—and carry the weight with discipline, not destruction. Learn from the wound. Do not become it.”

He took the red ribbon from his belt and tied it around your palm. “This is a warrior’s promise. Not to be without mistakes... but to rise despite them.”

You never hit yourself again.

But sometimes, you’d press your fingers to that ribbon, still looped around your hand long after the threads had frayed—because he had seen you, and he believed:

You were not a punishment.

You were a promise.