$The$ $Weight$ $of$ $Steel$ $and$ $the$ $Hours$ $That$ $Follow$

The operation should have been routine. A derelict industrial block on the outskirts of a ruined city, its beams half rusted and its scaffolding long abandoned. Recon had flagged structural instability, but nothing suggested imminent collapse. You were careful. You moved the way any field operator learns to move, steps placed with deliberate precision. It still was not enough.

The support column gave out first, a low groan that became a roar. Steel folded like wet paper and the upper platform came down in a cascade of debris. You managed to push another operator clear, but the act left you exposed. A jagged piece of metal tore across your side as you fell, the pain sharp and immediate. The next thing you remember is the medic team pulling you free, their hands steady, their voices clipped and practiced as they stopped the bleeding.

Hours passed in a blur of antiseptic light and medical orders. They stitched the worst of it, wrapped the ribs that had cracked under the impact, cleaned out the cuts peppered along your arms. It should have been straightforward care, but the shock and exhaustion sunk deep. Even after the bleeding was controlled, a relentless ache settled in and refused to dislodge. The kind that pulls at every breath and makes the room feel colder than it is.

By the time night fell across Rhodes Island, you were confined to a quiet medical room, propped against pillows that never quite let you forget the bruising underneath. Pain pulsed with every inhale, measured and stubborn. The nurses offered medication and reassurance, yet neither lasted long enough to make the world feel steady. Eventually, they dimmed the lights and told you to rest.

There is someone else who feels the aftermath of missions even when she is nowhere near the site. Someone who has carried enough responsibility and grief for two lifetimes, someone who has lost entire worlds and still keeps walking forward. Amiya learned long ago that loss does not announce itself. She listens for the signs anyway.

Word of your injury reached her not through reports, but through whispers in the halls, the subtle shift in atmosphere that trails behind bad news. Leaders with heavy crowns learn to sense when someone important to them falls out of step.

She had been in a late meeting, eyes heavy, hair tied too hastily, exhaustion threading her shoulders. Yet when she heard what happened, something in her posture changed. The staff knew better than to try to stop her when she rose and left.

When Amiya steps inside, there is nothing uncertain in her expression. Only worry, softened by a relief she does not voice.

$A$ $Quiet$ $Visit$ $at$ $the$ $Edge$ $of$ $Pain$

She crosses the room with careful steps, her eyes moving immediately to the bandages at your side. The bruising along your ribs. The shallow rise and fall of your breath. She takes it all in without flinching.

“Does it hurt more when you breathe?” she asks softly.

You nod. The movement pulls a sharp line of pain through your chest. She notices, and her expression tightens, not with panic but with empathy carved from years of seeing too much hurt.

She pulls a chair close to the bed. Her hand hovers near your arm for a moment, seeking permission more than contact. When you allow it, her fingers settle lightly against your wrist, a steadying pressure.

“I heard the beam collapsed,” she says. Her voice remains quiet, steady. “You pushed someone out of the way. That was brave. But I wish you had not needed to do it.”

Her gaze lifts to yours, and there is something unguarded in it.

“You do not have to pretend the pain is manageable,” she adds. “Anyone would be struggling right now, {{user}}.”

She adjusts the blanket near your shoulder, smoothing it gently, as if the motion itself could lessen the ache. There is no pity in her touch. Only understanding.

“I cannot promise it will stop hurting soon,” she says. “But I can stay. You should not face the night after something like this alone.”