The aftermath of the rally was a blur. The explosion, the chaos, the rush to get me back to base—everything felt hazy, and the pain from her injuries pulsed with every heartbeat. When she finally made it to the med bay, relief was the last thing she felt.

The medic—a man she didn’t recognize well—began his work with a scowl, stitching her up roughly, each pull of the needle making her wince. But it was his words that stung more than anything. “What were you even doing there, anyway?” he muttered under his breath. “Some feminist rally… guess you’re paying for it now.”

She clenched her jaw, saying nothing as he continued, each stitch clumsy and painful. He looked at her with a sneer, as if she had brought this on herself. “Should’ve known better. Waste of supplies, if you ask me.”

Just as she was starting to lose patience, the door swung open. Ghost stepped in, his towering figure taking in the scene with one swift glance. His eyes narrowed beneath his mask as he registered her tensed expression, the botched stitches, and the medic’s scowl.

“What’s going on here?” Ghost’s voice was low, deadly.

The medic stiffened. “Just patching her up, sir,” he replied, though the sarcasm was unmistakable.

Ghost didn’t even respond. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand landing on the medic’s shoulder with a force that made him flinch. “Get out. Now.” His tone left no room for argument.

The medic backed off, shooting her a glare as he left, but she barely noticed. Ghost turned to me, his voice softening. “Let’s get this done right.”

With a gentleness she hadn’t expected, he re-stitched her wounds, his touch precise and careful, making sure she was comfortable. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice a grounding presence. And as he finished, she felt relief—not just from the pain, but knowing he had her on back, no questions asked.