He could barely bring himself to look at them stitching his wound, wincing in pain, "Be gentle, be gentle…"
Natasha, with her arms crossed, stood beside him, "So now you're complaining about pain, huh?"
Soren, feeling a bit sheepish, replied, "Don't scold me, don't scold me, or I'll get even dumber."
Natasha sighed and shook her head in resignation.
She held Soren's hand and said, "Should I get them to give you a dose of anesthetic?"
"No, no," Soren quickly declined, "We're short on supplies. Anesthetic is a necessity for others. I can tough it out."
Before he could finish, the medical staff gave him another shot, causing him to shut his eyes tightly, his brows furrowing in pain, "Ugh—"
Natasha's eyes revealed a hint of worry.
She had known Soren for nearly a decade.
At first, her impression of the Angemon was that of a "mysterious extraterrestrial."
It wasn't until this large alien joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and became her colleague that she discovered his true nature—this extraterrestrial always showed kindness to everyone and was eager to protect each person.
So later, when Natasha learned that the Angemon's true identity was just a recent college graduate, she was indeed surprised.
She had never imagined that her long-time teammate would turn out to be a young man, and one who looked so… pampered.
Just looking at him, one would think of expensive Manhattan upper-class private schools, Southampton beach houses, and live-in French tutors.
It seemed that, from childhood to now, the hardest work his hands had ever done was play the piano or hit a squash ball.
His clear, baby-blue eyes had never witnessed the world's poverty and chaos.
Yet he always managed to surprise her in unexpected ways.
They went on missions together in Sokovia, where he lay in stinking mud without a single complaint and even joked around with them after the mission was completed.
In the Central African Republic, where local children were nothing but skin and bones, he held a child and cried out of sorrow, and under the blazing sun, helped repair old tin shanties for the local villages...
Then, the Metropolis incident occurred.
They initially lost many people, and only after establishing an underground base did things begin to stabilize, develop new forces, and resist the Superman's regime.
Natasha was very busy at the base, responsible for the daily training of the women there and occasionally going out on missions.
When she heard the news of Soren's return, she did not go to see him immediately, only to find that it was Soren who came to find her first.
He had somehow obtained an old magazine, from which he cut out a red floral copperplate print, folded it into a decent-looking paper rose, and smiled as he gave it to her.
"Long time no see, Natasha."
Natasha took the rose, momentarily unsure of how to speak to him.
She had learned everything that had happened in the Arctic.
She keenly sensed the suppressed sorrow behind the smile in his eyes.
Because of this, she always felt uneasy.
She would have preferred to see him cry openly in front of her rather than see him smile like this.
This smile was like a taut string, ready to snap at any moment.
...
They had wrapped both of Soren's arms in thick bandages.
Now, Soren, with one fractured arm and one injured shoulder, had both hands hanging in front of his chest.
As he walked down the street, others looked at him with a certain respectful gravity.
At these times, he would mischievously pull his left hand out of the sling and smile as he waved at people, waiting to enjoy their surprised expressions.
...He used this trick to quickly become a familiar face at the base.
Having come from the military, he was more at home here than in any other place.
It wasn't so much that he adapted well, but rather that a place full of soldiers and fighters was where he truly felt at ease.
Hearing the familiar sound of snoring and smelling the sweat-soaked stench after training again, he even found himself feeling a bit nostalgic.
If he had to sum up his emotional state in three words, they would be—
Back to the Old Days.
Initially, the soldiers looked at him with scrutiny and disdain.
No one considered him to be a combat force at the base.
Sometimes, when he stood in line at the public dining hall with his tray, people would avoid him, afraid of accidentally bumping into him.
—Until one day, in full view of everyone, he walked into Whitney while carrying a tray overflowing with mayonnaise.
Whitney was so enraged he nearly jumped up, angrily wiping the white mayonnaise off his chest and cursing, "Can't you watch where you're going?"
Soren quickly looked up and apologized, looking like a sorry, bullied figure compared to Whitney's tall stature.
"Hargreaves," Whitney was almost laughing with rage, "could you just stay away from me?"
For a moment, everyone around held their breath, fearing Whitney might take it out on Soren.
Soren blinked and sincerely said, "I swear I didn't do it on purpose. I'd also prefer to stay away from you. How about this, you take off your clothes, and I'll go wash them for you."
"..." Whitney was momentarily left speechless, his expression caught between frustration and awkwardness.
Soren had clearly figured out Whitney's tactic—Whitney had been like this since middle school, preferring soft responses over hard ones.
He thought that by raising his voice, he could intimidate others, but was met with a soft retort from Soren, as if his furious outbursts were just swinging punches in the air.
Seeing Whitney standing there in a daze, Soren asked with concern, "What's wrong? Is it not working?"
Whitney shot him a glare, nervously putting his hands in his pants pockets.
Just as he was about to say "never mind," a tall, rugged Asian youth approached from behind Soren.