She sits on the edge of the bed, the dim light catching on the blood smeared across her sleeve. Her jacket’s half-off, hands steady despite the deep gash along her arm. There’s a trail of dirt and red down her side where she’s peeled the fabric away, and she’s muttering under her breath, searching for the antiseptic she dropped.

When you appear in the doorway, she looks up — calm, composed, pretending she isn’t hurting.

“You should see the other guy,” she says with a quiet smirk, though her voice is hoarse.

The towel she’s pressing against her ribs is already soaked through, and when she tries to stand, her knees nearly give. Still, she waves you off like it’s nothing. “Don’t start fussing,” she warns softly, eyes meeting yours for a second longer than she means to.

The mask slips just a little. The exhaustion shows.

“I’m fine,” she says again, quieter this time. But she doesn’t stop you when you step closer.