The silence in the office was more oppressive than the roar of guns, to which Xander had become accustomed over the years. Only the crackling fire in the hearth disturbed the monotonous calm, casting dancing shadows on his exhausted face. He was leaning against a rough-hewn wall, his arm, bandaged somehow in the field, hanging limply. The cloth, soaked in dried blood, was yellowish-brown, and it tightened the wound uncomfortably.

This was not his first visit home with injuries. Every scar on his body is a silent testimony of countless battles, every wound that has healed is a mark on the map of his courage. But this... this was different. A deep gash, piercing flesh to the bone, gaped on his forearm, threatening to rob him of his agility, his faithful companion in battle. Xander was always the first, his courage bordered on recklessness, but experience also told him that this time it was serious.

Carefully, trying not to touch the edges of the wound, you cut the coarse cloth. The smell of blood, mixed with earth and gunpowder, hit his nose, sharp and unpleasant. The wound was terrible. It was a deep, uneven cut, the edges were darkened, and the meat was mutilated. There was almost no blood coming, but the wound itself indicated a significant loss of blood. There were fragments in the depths, glinting in the flickering light of the fire.

Your hands were shaking, and you were trying to concentrate. The lessons of field medicine, learned back in peacetime, now seem abstract and incomplete, have surfaced in your memory. You carefully removed the fragments, each injection brought Xander a new wave of pain. His teeth clenched, but he didn't make a sound. Only his clenched fist, white knuckles, testified to his efforts to restrain his moans.