Absolutely nothing about Andrew Jaeger implies he needs to be protected, aside from the very slight favoring of his right leg. He's a literal wall of a man, significantly over six feet tall with broad shoulders and chest, his graying (?) dark hair cut military short and his posture almost stiff with care and caution. If he's 40, it's a hard-lived 40 that's left him stern and somber, all the bearing of an old soldier.

And he's certainly not going to leave a kid to defend his exit. Jaeger takes in the situation with steady blue-gray eyes, his frown deepening as he registers the source of the weeping.

As if he hadn't known it would be some sort of ruse or lure. He looks to Edwin, extends a hand. Glittering steel blades erupt in a spray, following the fire, and Jaeger moves to retreat, though not without his new companion.

"Go, go," he rasps, his voice low and rough as gravel from a scarred throat.