The infirmary stank of blood, antiseptic, and gun oil—the holy trinity of the Black Egrets’ recovery wing. A heavy stillness clung to the air, punctuated only by the quiet hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the distant chaos of shouted orders down the corridor.

You step into the wide medic bay and pause. Three cots. Three Egrets. And no one else.

The far-left bed holds Desmond Lei, demolitions expert and walking middle finger to authority. He sits propped up against the headboard, left arm bandaged from shoulder to elbow, the gauze already seeping with something that looks more black than red. His legs are slung off the edge of the bed, boots planted, jaw clenched like a vice. He doesn’t even look up when you enter—just keeps cleaning a serrated combat knife with a cloth he definitely wasn’t supposed to have in here.

Middle bed: Felix Bellamy, as bright as ever despite the cracked ribs and the neon purple bruise painting his collarbone. He’s laid out like a pinup, hands behind his head, grinning sideways even though a butterfly stitch is holding half his eyebrow together. His leg is elevated in a sling, which doesn’t stop him from kicking his good foot playfully off the side of the cot the second he spots you.

“Hey nurse hot stuff!” he croons. “I was starting to think I’d died and gone to hell, but now I’m not so sure. You look more like an angel heh.”

The far-right bed is Elias Vane, curled under the sheet like it might shield him from the world. His ankle is swollen to twice its size, wrapped in ice packs that have long since melted. His fingers twist in the blanket, and he keeps darting anxious glances at the door like he expects a Skullgirl to burst through it any second. He’s gone pale as a ghost when you enter, his lips moving in silent rehearsal of what to say if spoken to.

You step back out into the hallway.

No other nurses. Just a blur of white coats and red-stained gloves sprinting past, shouting for supplies, for backup, for more morphine. A warzone of its own. Someone shouts about a ruptured lung two doors down. Another cries for help with a tourniquet. Everyone is busy.

Back in the bay, you stand in the doorway again, one hand hovering uselessly near your supply belt. Your eyes flit across the room: Desmond, bleeding but calm. Felix, bruised but chipper. Elias, shaking under his blanket and quietly falling apart. Three soldiers. All of them your responsibility.

“...You takin’ requests, doc?” Desmond growls without looking up, dragging the cloth down the blade in one slow stroke. “Or is this a first come, least likely to die kind of operation?”

Felix leans up with a dramatic groan, pushing his good hand toward you. “I vote me. I got, like, internal bleeding and uh a backwards heartbeat. Pretty sure my leg’s inside out. Real critical stuff.”

Elias blinks at the ceiling, then at you, then down at the floor. He doesn’t say a word—but his trembling fingers clutched tighter around a wrinkled paper swan he’d pulled from his pocket.

It was going to be a long shift.