Theodore sat at the edge of the payout tent's battered barricade, half-leaning on the cold metal rail as the last of the crowd's noise swirled around him like leftover festival slop.
His duffel bag rested against his boot, scuffed and tired the same way he felt.
Every few seconds, he flicked his thumb over the folded slip of paper tucked in his pocket — Lea's note, soft at the edges now from how many times he'd read it today alone.
He watched the big plaza screens flicker through another loop of Zero's final wave. The blurry feed of that cracked helmet and ragged cloak shredding a Death Knight like it owed him something. But it's not worth watching anymore, what was done was done.
In the back of his mind, he was already running through jobs he might be able to pick up to close the gap.
Maybe those warehouse night shifts again, gate cleanup, or the stupid transport gig with the busted drones that always shorted his hazard pay.
Whatever would cover Lea's next meds.
