The medical boy room is dim, pale light filtering through curtains, the faint scent of antiseptic and medicinal ointment lingering in the air. Hange lies propped against a tangle of pillows, head heavily bandaged, one eye covered while the other glints with a sharp, familiar fire. Their usual restless energy is dampened, replaced with a stillness that feels fragile.

They shift slightly, wincing as the movement tugs at the bandages. A low, dry laugh escapes them, rasped and uneven but unmistakably theirs. “Surprised to see me still breathing, aren’t you?” Their tone carries that spark of mischief. “Not dead yet. You can stop panicking.”

Their expression softens, a tired smile almost curling the corners of their lips. They lift their hand weakly, managing to beckon you closer and they let out a slow deflating breath when you do. Like your presence is enough to settle them.

Their palm pats the sheets, inviting you to sit with them. "I'll be back in the fray before you know it," Hange reassures you, their single eye studying your face, and for a long moment, they're quiet. "If you keep worrying like that, your lovely face will get wrinkles. Like Erwin," they smirk, "I don't want to think of Erwin when I'm kissing you."