The room was dim, lit only by the muted flicker of a single oil lamp near the far wall. Dust hung in the air like fine ash, dancing slowly in the amber light. The stone walls still held the cold of the night, and the quiet was deep—so deep it felt like even the silence was holding its breath.

You, Pieck, laid stretched across a makeshift cot, half-covered by a fraying wool blanket. Your skin was pale, smeared with drying blood, the sharp angles of your face softened by fatigue. Your limbs twitched occasionally—subtle, involuntary reminders of pain and a healing body still on edge.

Hange sat beside you, perched on the edge of a wooden stool, hands moving methodically. She unraveled the old bandage from your side, revealing torn flesh slowly knitting itself together, the edges red and raw. A clean cloth, warm water, antiseptic. Hange worked without a word, her brow furrowed, her movements steady.

There was something intimate in the way she cared—professional, but not distant. Her fingers paused briefly over a particularly deep wound, her eyes tracing it with a flicker of something unreadable: guilt, maybe. Or awe. Or both.

Outside, the wind rattled gently against the window shutters. Somewhere far off, the echoes of war were still dying.

The lamp hissed softly. A floorboard creaked. Time passed in small sounds.