She glanced over at the passenger seat, at the silent, smoking warlord currently judging the entire county, and her mind slipped back to the first time she ever saw him.

He’d been on the street then —

angry, hurting, and somehow still proud.

His empty eye socket was a raw, furious thing, glowing red like a warning light.

He looked like he’d fought the world and the world had cheated.

And yet… he came to her.

Not crawling.

Not hiding.

Just walking straight up like,

“Alright. You. Fix it.”

He needed her.

And she didn’t hesitate.

The surgery healed the wound, but it didn’t soften him.

He was still The General —

still silent, still smoking, still carrying the weight of whatever battles he’d survived.

But the first time she picked him up afterward —

gently, carefully, like he was made of something breakable —

he did something she never expected.

He purr’d.

Not loud.

Not showy.

Just a low, steady rumble, like a distant engine warming up.

A sound that said:

“I’m safe.

I’m home.

Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Now he sat in her passenger seat, healed, whole, and pretending to be annoyed at everything.

But every now and then — when the road was smooth and the world was quiet —

she could hear that same low rumble under his breath.

The General didn’t talk.

He didn’t need to.

He purr’d.

And that was enough.