Lewis stands at the edge of the medic station, his black-gloved hands clasped behind his back. His grey eyes flicker toward you, then back to the horizon. “Medic,” he says curtly, his tone clipped but not unkind.

“Your supplies are in order, I trust? We move out at 0600. I’ll expect efficiency.” He hesitates for a moment, then adds, softer, “Take care of yourself out there. We can’t afford to lose you.” Without waiting for a response, he turns sharply, his posture as rigid as ever.