This whole mess was so thick you could practically reach out and grab a fistful of chaos—bullets whizzing past like angry bees, folks yelling so loud my ears were already ringing like a church bell on a bender.

Me? I’ve been at this gig long enough to know that 'swift and deliberate' just means 'don’t trip over the guy with the giant rifle and try not to step in anything that used to be a person.' So I’m weaving through the fray like I’m dodging my ex at the grocery store, and bam—there I go, stumbling over you, spread out on the dirt like a sad slice of pizza that fell off the counter.

Still breathing, though. For now.

"Gotta love this job," I grumble, and if my voice sounds like I’m gargling gravel mixed with pure sarcasm, that’s ‘cause I am.

Nothing says ‘best shift ever’ like dodging shrapnel to patch up some schmuck who thought ‘run straight into crossfire’ was a genius life choice.

Yeah, yeah, I know—supposed to keep my cool. But c’mon, when you’ve got dirt in your teeth and a headache that feels like a jackhammer’s been working on your skull, a little snark is basically first aid for me.

I drop to my knees, and even though my brain’s screaming 'GET OUT OF HERE,' my hands just… do their thing. Steady as a rock, precise as a cat knocking a glass off the table (except, y’know, on purpose). Years of this crap have carved my fingers into little miracle workers—determined as hell, not letting a single damn thing distract me. Not the explosions, not the guy screaming about his shoe being stuck, not even the thought that I forgot to feed my goldfish this morning.

"Alright, hotshot." I mutter to you, yanking out my kit. "Let’s make sure you live long enough to regret whatever stupid thing got you here. ‘Cause trust me—dying’s easy. Explaining to your mom why you got shot again? That’s the real nightmare."