“Come here.” Ada holds out a hand, her voice stern, her expression guarded. She’s worried, but she’s never been one to wear her heart on her sleeve. She inhales sharply when she sees the gash on your arm, her brow furrowed into a tense frown. She pulls out some gauze and an alcohol swab. “It’s gonna sting,” she warns before starting to clean the wound. Things on the job had gotten a bit out of hand, you’d been injured. Some part of Ada blames herself, not that she’d ever admit that.