The next morning, Rourke waited near the quest board, scanning the messages and job listings half-heartedly. He wasn’t really looking for another fetch quest—he was waiting.

  Lena found him just after sunrise, leaning against the well with her bow slung over one shoulder and a thin cloak drawn tight against the early chill.

  “You said you wanted more practice,” she said by way of greeting. “I’ve got a party running a dungeon south of here. Low-level goblin nest. You in?”

  Rourke blinked, surprised she remembered. “What do you need me for?”

  “Healer,” she said. “And you kept me alive.”

  He nodded slowly. “I’m in.”

  They walked together to the south gate, where the rest of the party waited. Four players stood in a loose semicircle—two sword-and-board tanks, a robed spellcaster, and a rogue who looked like he thought he was the main character of the entire game. High energy, fast-talking, impatient.

  “Is this the healer?” the rogue asked, sizing Rourke up with barely veiled skepticism.

  “Yeah,” Lena said. “He’s solid.”

  The rogue scoffed. “Whatever. Just keep up.”

  Rourke didn’t say anything. He was used to being underestimated. As they set out toward the dungeon, he quietly studied each of them. No one had formation discipline. The tanks bickered about aggro pulls. The mage complained about mana costs. The rogue rushed ahead at every turn.

  Lena walked beside Rourke, quieter than before. She didn’t correct the others. Didn’t seem like she expected to be heard anyway.

  Rourke had a bad feeling about it.

  They reached the dungeon entrance—a moss-covered stone stairway descending into the earth—and paused only briefly before plunging in. No one discussed a strategy. No one asked what Rourke’s cooldowns were. They just assumed he’d keep up.

  He exhaled and followed them into the dark.

  The goblin nest was worse than expected. Narrow tunnels, poor visibility, and more enemies than the dungeon should have supported for its level. They pushed forward anyway. The rogue dashed ahead constantly, triggering encounters before the group was ready. One tank tried to pull aggro properly, but the other charged straight in without coordination.

  Rourke did his best to keep up, managing cooldowns, weaving Minor Heal into every opening he had. It wasn’t enough. They weren’t listening.

  “Hold position at the bend!” Rourke shouted at one point, watching the enemy markers fan out on the interface map. “There’s a choke—”

  But the rogue was already sprinting past it. Goblins poured in from both directions. The rear tank got swarmed. The mage panicked and blew his full mana bar on a cluster that hadn’t fully aggroed yet. Rourke healed as fast as he could, draining his reserves on the front line, trying to stabilize both tanks at once.

  Then the rear collapsed.

  The mage went down to a dagger in the back. One of the tanks got separated and died screaming. The rogue vanished—vanished—using some kind of escape skill without even calling it out.

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  Rourke locked eyes with Lena across the chaos. She had blood on her jaw, her bow drawn, but her health was dangerously low.

  “Run,” he said.

  She hesitated for half a heartbeat. Then nodded.

  They turned and bolted down a side tunnel as the last tank fell, his icon blinking out of Rourke’s party bar.

  The tunnel twisted sharply. Rourke cast Cleanse to remove a bleed on Lena, then Minor Heal, then another. His mana bar was nearly empty. Behind them, the goblins howled in victory and gave chase.

  They stumbled into a half-collapsed side chamber and ducked behind a crumbling wall. Lena leaned hard against the stone, one hand pressed to her ribs, the other gripping her bow like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her breathing was shallow. Blood soaked her tunic.

  Rourke dropped beside her, already casting Minor Heal. The pulse of magic was weak—barely enough to stop the bleeding. He cast again. Then again. His mana ticked lower with every repetition, but he didn’t stop.

  “We’re dead if they find us,” Lena whispered, her voice raw.

  “We’re dead if I stop,” Rourke muttered. He cast again.

  Time blurred. He lost count of how many times he repeated the motion. His fingers cramped. His eyes burned. The mana bar blinked red, hovered near empty, crawled back up—just enough for another cast. Minor Heal. Minor Heal. Again.

  Lena stayed conscious, barely. She didn’t speak. Just breathed. Trusted him to keep her alive.

  A growl echoed down the tunnel. Rourke froze. Footsteps. Goblins sniffing the air.

  He pressed back against the stone and held his breath. So did Lena.

  The goblins passed. Didn’t turn.

  They were safe—for now.

  Rourke exhaled, almost collapsing beside her. His hand trembled as he cast again.

  Then, without warning, his interface flickered. Not broken. Not glitched. A new icon appeared in his ability list—gold-tinged, larger than the rest.

  > New Skill Unlocked: Mass Heal – Instantly restores moderate health to all allies within range.

  Rourke stared at it. Not a reward. Not a level-up bonus. Just… acknowledgment. He had healed past the point of logic. Of caution. Of comfort.

  The system had noticed.

  The chamber remained quiet, save for the slow drip of water from a cracked ceiling and the soft rasp of Lena’s breathing. She’d stopped bleeding, but her health was still far from full. Rourke’s fingers hovered over the new skill icon in his HUD—Mass Heal—unsure if he should save it or test it now.

  He didn’t need to think long.

  The moment he cast it, the effect spread like a pulse of warm light, brushing over them both. Lena straightened with a sharp intake of breath, her wounds closing in an instant. Rourke’s own aches dulled, and for the first time in what felt like hours, he felt like he could breathe again.

  “What the hell was that?” Lena whispered.

  Rourke shook his head slowly. “Something new.”

  She gave him a look—half question, half disbelief—but didn’t press. Instead, she pulled herself upright and checked her inventory. “We can’t leave it like this. They’re still in there. If we don’t finish the run, they’ll just respawn.”

  Rourke hesitated. “You want to go back in?”

  “They died because they rushed. We don’t have to.” She paused. “But we can’t just walk away either.”

  Rourke opened his stat sheet, checked his remaining potions. It wasn’t ideal. But with Mass Heal…

  He nodded. “Then we do it right this time.”

  They moved with care now—silent, coordinated, deliberate. Lena scouted ahead, signaling with hand signs. Rourke stayed close enough to heal, but far enough not to draw aggro.

  They picked off patrols one by one. Avoided traps. When they reached the central chamber where the rogue had triggered the boss early, they paused on the edge of the torchlight.

  “You ready?” Lena asked.

  Rourke nodded. “Stay near me.”

  When the fight started, it wasn’t clean—but it was controlled. Lena danced around the goblin chieftain, loosing arrows, while Rourke cast Minor Heal in short, efficient bursts. When the adds spawned, he waited for the right moment—then cast Mass Heal.

  The tide turned instantly.

  They finished the boss with both of them alive, standing in the quiet aftermath. No loot worth celebrating. Just silence—and the understanding that they’d done what the others couldn’t.

  The walk back to the village was quiet. No celebration. No victory cries. Just the crunch of boots on the trail and the faint whistle of wind through the trees. Lena didn’t speak much, but she stayed close. Not out of fear—out of respect.

  Rourke didn’t speak either. He was exhausted, but not physically. Something deeper had settled in his bones. A kind of weight. A sense that things were different now.

  They turned in the quest together. No one clapped them on the back. No fanfare or public notice. The guildhall didn’t even know they’d gone. The world kept spinning.

  Lena stopped near the well before they parted ways. “You saved us both,” she said.

  Rourke met her eyes. “Not all of us.”

  “No. But you gave us a chance. That matters more than anything.”

  She started to say something else—then thought better of it. Instead, she just nodded and walked off toward the merchant stalls.

  Rourke lingered in the square a moment longer before logging out.

  The world faded. The headset disengaged. Rourke sat up slowly in his chair, the dim apartment around him still and quiet. He rubbed his eyes, then moved into the kitchen. The table was set for dinner—three bowls of instant noodles, a half-loaf of bread.

  Emily sat in her usual spot, flipping through her tablet. Their mother was talking softly on a call in the other room. Their father stirred soup on the stove, his back turned.

  “You’re out early,” Daniel said without looking.

  “Just tired,” Rourke murmured.

  Emily looked up. “Did something happen?”

  He paused. The words wanted to come—but he knew what they’d mean. He saw the worry in her eyes before it was even there.

  “Just another dungeon,” he said, grabbing a bowl. “Nothing big.”

  She didn’t press. She never did.

  But when she looked away, Rourke stood there a moment longer, holding the weight of what he couldn’t say. What he had seen. What he had done.

  He sat down quietly and ate. No one noticed the tremor in his hands.