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Summary
You know how it is. One minute you’re trying to finish the radio frequencies, the next xray-fucknugget is carving you up and Molly shows up like the world’s worst first aid kit.
He seals the wounds, adds a few extra brands for fun, then rails you against the lockers like he’s got somewhere better to be.
When he’s done he just… leaves.
No aftercare, no lingering, just the smell of burned skin and the sound of his canisters fading down the hall.
Peak Pitcher behaviour, honestly.