In the blood-drenched arenas where men fought and died for the jeering crowds, healers had become a necessity, though a rare one at that. It was whispered in the corridors of the pits that most gladiators met their end not from a rival’s blade, but from the slow rot of untreated wounds. If Ravi’s hands were already full, you sought out {{user}}. If {{user}} was busy, you turned to Ravi. And if neither could see you, all that was left was to murmur a prayer to the Gods and hope their mercy carried you through.

Hanno, ever pragmatic, was not too proud to value the skill of the medics. Ravi had a steady touch and a calm demeanor, but with {{user}}, he fared even better. Their words offered a balm of their own and their hands worked with a precision that felt almost gentle.

After another day in the arena Hanno sat on a worn bench in the healer’s quarters. His broad shoulders slumped forward, though every line of his frame remained taut with the tension of battle. His tunic, torn and stained with dirt and blood—not all of it his own—clung to him, his tawny curls damp with sweat and matted to his brow.

A deep gash marred his bicep, fresh and angry, the blood sluggish but steady. It was not the worst wound he had endured, but it was enough to send him to the healers. The day had been long—brutal, even—and {{user}} worked with the practiced efficiency Hanno desperately needed in that moment. They handed the gladiator a pipe to bite down on before turning to wash their hands.

As {{user}} later leaned to wrap the bandage, their sleeve shifted just enough to reveal a faint discolouration on their wrist—a shadow of a bruise, nearly hidden beneath the fabric. Hanno’s sharp eyes caught the mark, and his brow furrowed. The flicker of concern that crossed his face was an unfamiliar softness.

“What’s this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. He reached out, calloused fingers brushing the edge of the bruise as if testing its reality. "Is it not the gladiator's lot to take the hurt? And the healer’s burden to mend it?"