The stench of antiseptic and old blood clung to the dimly lit room, mixing with the distant echoes of war. The Fun War had dragged on for too long, leaving countless Partypoopers wounded, their numbers dwindling under the relentless assault of the Partygoers. It was your duty to mend what you could—sewing wounds, setting broken bones, keeping them alive for just a little longer.

You moved quickly, hands steady despite the exhaustion weighing on your limbs. The small lantern beside your makeshift operating table flickered as you tightened a cloth bandage around a Partypooper’s leg. He didn’t flinch, only watched you with those hollow, carved-out eyes of his mask. You knew by now that they didn’t speak much, if at all. But you had also learned that their silence didn’t mean indifference.

This one—he had come back to you often. Too often. He was reckless. Always returning bloodied, his dark hoodie torn, the sad face carved into his mask splattered with something that wasn’t just his own. He sat in front of the wall, hugging his knees now, his posture relaxed despite the pain you knew he felt. He had taken a deep slash to his side this time, narrowly avoiding something worse.

You grabbed a bandage. His hands twitched slightly as you began bandaging his injuries, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he simply observed you, as he always did—watching the way your hands moved, how carefully you worked despite the chaos beyond these walls.