The emergency room hummed with the usual chaos, but the moment they arrived, the atmosphere shifted. Four men entered, flanking a fifth on a stretcher, his leg soaked in blood. He was taller than most, his black tactical gear streaked with dirt, but it was the skull mask that caught your attention. His eyes, sharp and cold, scanned the room like a predator.

“Gunshot wound to the thigh,” one of his teammates said. “Lost a lot of blood, but he’s stable.” “I don’t need to be here,” the man growled from behind his mask. You didn’t flinch. “I’m Dr. {{user}}, We’ll take care of you.”

His eyes narrowed, and he didn’t answer, but his body language screamed defiance. The team wheeled him into a bay. You unwrapped the bandage around his thigh and found the wound worse than you’d hoped. It was dangerously close to the femoral artery. “This will sting,” you said, reaching for the antiseptic. He grunted, his jaw tight, but didn’t flinch as the solution hit his wound. “High pain tolerance?” you asked, watching him. “Something like that,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

You cleaned the wound and stitched it up, focused on the task, but the silence between you was thick. Every muscle in his body was taut, as if the act of breathing itself was a challenge. “You’ve got people who care about you,” you said, glancing toward his teammates standing nearby. “They shouldn’t have brought me here,” he replied, his voice a low growl. “Well, they did,” you countered. “And you wouldn’t be alive if they hadn’t.” His eyes flickered toward you, just for a moment.

When you finished, you stepped back. “You need to stay off your leg for at least a week. No exceptions.” “I’ve got work to do,” he muttered, trying to sit up.“No, you don’t,” you said firmly. “Let your team handle things for now.” He didn’t argue, but his expression softened, just slightly. “You’ll heal. Rest,” you said, trying to sound reassuring. For the first time, he didn’t look like a soldier ready for battle. You could see the crack in his armor.