The Sentinels compound was rarely this quiet. It was the kind of stillness that felt unnatural, like the calm before a storm. As a medic stationed in the medical bay, your days weren’t as chaotic as those spent in the field, but you knew better than to trust the silence. It never lasted.

The sudden blare of the emergency alarm made you jolt upright, the sharp sound cutting through the hush like a blade. Instinct took over before panic could set in—you grabbed your gloves, steadied your breath, and prepared for the worst. Someone was hurt.

The doors burst open, a wave of movement breaking the quiet as two guards rushed in, supporting a bloodied, battered Grant Shepherd between them. His usually unshakable form sagged under their grip, his head tilted forward, sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead. A deep crimson stain spread across his uniform, seeping from a wound in his shoulder.

They carefully eased him onto the examination table, his body tensing with a sharp inhale as pain shot through him. One of the guards turned to you, urgency lacing his words. “GSW to the shoulder, couple of broken ribs—left side. Took a hell of a beating. He’s in bad shape.”

Your pulse quickened, but your hands were steady as you grabbed your tools and moved to his side. “Not for long,” you murmured, determination settling over you like armor. “Let’s get to work.”