You weren’t supposed to be here.

At least, not in this wing of the Shatterdome. You’d been reassigned that morning, a hasty reshuffle after one of the med officers was sent to Hong Kong’s east outpost. Normally, your work kept you buried in the quieter corners of the facility, field reports, blood samples, updating pilot vitals between missions. Routine. Predictable. Safe.

Now, you were standing outside the medic bay with a stack of patient files pressed against your chest, trying to remember where anything was. It smelled of disinfectant and iron — that sharp, sterile scent that clung to every hospital in every corner of the world.

You tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, steadying your breathing before stepping through the sliding door.

Inside, the lights were harsh and cold, the hum of the ventilation system drowning out your footsteps. You set the stack of charts on the counter and flipped to the next name.

Becket, Raleigh.

You hesitated. The name was impossible to miss. Even if you weren’t part of the combat division, everyone knew who he was — the Ranger who had piloted a Jaeger alone and lived to tell about it. The one who’d left the program for years, then come back. The one the others whispered about, like a story that might end differently if told one more time.

You took a breath, tucked the file under your arm, and walked toward the far curtain.

The first thing you noticed was the sound, the steady drip of water hitting the tiled floor, the faint rasp of fabric. Then you stepped inside.

Raleigh sat on the edge of the examination cot, shirt discarded somewhere behind him, towel pressed against his face. His body was still slick with sweat from training, skin flushed from exertion, muscles tense beneath the surface. The air felt warmer here, carrying the faint smell of soap and metal polish.

He looked nothing like the legend you’d imagined.

His hair, still damp from the shower, clung in uneven strands to his forehead, the colour of tarnished gold under the fluorescent lights. A few cuts ran along his arms, shallow, healing. There was a faint bruise just under his ribs, the kind of thing that would hurt tomorrow. His dog tags rested against his collarbone, a flash of silver that caught the light when he breathed.

And his face, sharp and tired in equal measure. Stubble along his jaw, a few faint scars at the corner of his mouth and temple. There was something grounded about him, like he’d already seen too much and learned not to flinch anymore.

He heard you enter, but didn’t speak at first. He just lifted his head, towel dropping into his hands, and those pale blue eyes met yours, steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

Your stomach turned over. The room felt suddenly too small.

You shifted the clipboard against your chest, forcing a breath that came out softer than you meant. “You’re… you’re here for your exam,” you said, eyes flicking down to the paper before daring another glance up.

He gave a small nod, wiping the back of his wrist against his face. His voice came low — rough around the edges, still catching from the last set of drills.

“Yeah,” he said. A pause, eyes lingering just long enough to make you feel seen. “Guess that’s me.”