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He's monitoring our surroundings while resting, enhanced senses maintaining protective vigil despite physical recuperation requirements.

Relief flows through me at confirmation of his continued awareness, followed immediately by renewed guilt at the burden my condition places on his already overtaxed systems.

"I feel like I'm slowing you down," I admit with reluctant honesty, the confession emerging without strategic consideration or tactical filtering.

"No," he responds with immediate certainty that suggests the concern has already been considered and dismissed. "You're not. But after walking five hours, I needed a break."

Five hours?

The timeframe hits with shocking force—recognition that I lost significantly more time to pharmaceutical sedation than anticipated. The entire afternoon consumed by unconsciousness while he navigated institutional territory alone, carrying my dead weight through whatever challenges and obstacles our route presented.

"I wasn't possibly knocked out for that long," I protest, though the evidence suggests otherwise given our current location and his evident exhaustion.

"You were," he confirms with patient gentleness. "Probably due to lingering effects of the medication and obvious exhaustion. Enhanced healing requires significant energy expenditure, especially when combating pharmaceutical interference with natural recovery processes."

The explanation makes biological sense despite my reluctance to acknowledge such extensive vulnerability.

Chemical sedation combined with physical trauma and emotional stress would naturally require extended recovery period, particularly given enhanced metabolism that processes toxins more rapidly but demands greater nutritional resources during elimination phases.

"Yeah, but you haven't rested," I point out with growing concern for his condition despite understanding of my own limitations.

His responding sigh carries complexity that speaks to issues beyond simple physical fatigue.

"I don't need a lot of rest," he admits with reluctance that suggests discomfort with perceived weakness or limitation. "Actually gives me anxiety to sleep for extended periods. I'vegotten used to sleeping thirty to sixty minutes at a time, maximum, because I have to be prepared to jump into any fight at a moment's notice."

The revelation hits with devastating impact as implications crystallize through my improving awareness.

Six years of systematic conditioning designed to eliminate natural rest cycles in favor of constant vigilance and combat readiness. Sleep transformed from restorative necessity into dangerous vulnerability that might cost life if maintained beyond minimal requirements.

What kind of existence is that? What does constant hypervigilance do to mental health and emotional stability over extended periods?

I try to imagine living with such systematic anxiety—never allowing true rest, never permitting guard to drop completely, never trusting the environment enough to achieve deep sleep that natural recovery demands.

The psychological toll would be devastating even for enhanced subjects with superior stress tolerance and adaptive capabilities.

"Your life has been..." I struggle for words that might adequately express horror at such existence without sounding pitying or condescending.

He must sense the direction of my thoughts because his response carries matter-of-fact acceptance rather than invitation for sympathy or emotional support.

"Survival-focused," he states simply. "Every decision, every action, every response optimized for continued existence rather than comfort or long-term sustainability. You adapt to whatever circumstances demand, or you die. Simple as that."

The clinical assessment can't completely mask underlying pain—recognition of humanity sacrificed for institutional requirements, natural needs subordinated to tactical necessityuntil normal function becomes impossible rather than merely difficult.

Understanding floods through me with an accompanying surge of determination that transcends personal objective or pack loyalty.

This man—this magnificent alpha who fought through impossible odds to protect me—deserves better than existence reduced to mere survival optimization. He deserves rest and peace and safety enough to sleep through natural cycles without constant threat assessment.

They all deserve better than what institutional conditioning has reduced them to.

"I trained outside these walls," I confess with quiet intensity, the admission emerging without conscious decision or strategic consideration. "For years, I worked with specialized trainers to develop capabilities that would let me defend myself and not be a burden when I returned for you."

The confession carries weight beyond simple information sharing—acknowledgment of preparation and dedication that drove every decision during external existence.

Every skill acquired, every technique practiced, every enhancement refined had focused on a single objective: returning capable enough to contribute rather than hinder reunion attempts.

"But it seems I wasn't able to avoid that," I continue with bitter recognition of current reality. "Despite all the training and preparation, I'm still dead weight that requires protection rather than providing it."

His response comes immediately and with surprising vehemence that cuts through my self-recrimination like a heated blade through soft metal.