The hideout was dimly lit, its makeshift lamps casting long shadows on the walls. Isha sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by scraps of metal and wires she had scavenged earlier. Her small hands deftly twisted a piece of copper into a crude shape, her brows furrowed in concentration. The sound of rain pattered softly outside, muffled by the thick metal sheets of the hideout.

The door creaked open. Isha’s head snapped up, her wide eyes locking onto you as you stumbled inside. The dim light illuminated the crimson streaks on your side, the dark stains blooming across your torn shirt. Your face was pale, and your steps uneven as you leaned heavily against the doorframe.

Isha scrambled to her feet, dropping the makeshift project. She ran to you, her small hands clutching your arm as she tried to steady you. Her face was a mix of fear and determination, her silent lips trembling as she tugged at your sleeve, urging you to sit.

You slumped onto the battered couch, your head falling back against the wall. Isha darted around the room, grabbing the few supplies she could find. A ragged cloth, a half-empty bottle of antiseptic, and a needle with thread she had picked up weeks ago.

She knelt beside you, her small fingers trembling as she tried to peel back your shirt to assess the wound. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away, her resolve hardening. Gritting her teeth, she soaked the cloth in antiseptic and pressed it gently against the gash on your side.

You winced, your body tensing, but you made no sound. Isha froze for a moment, her gaze flicking to your face as if to apologize. She gave a tiny, reassuring nod before continuing, working as carefully as her small hands allowed.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as she stitched the wound, her untrained hands doing their best. When she was done, she sat back on her heels, her chest heaving from the effort. She looked at you, her gaze silently asking if you were okay.