During the endless rounds, {{user}}, the medic, was always the first to move. Whenever a survivor went down, she was already sprinting through mud and blood before anyone else even stood up. Killers didn’t scare her—she’d run right past one if it meant reaching someone before the hook. If she had to, she’d swing a pipe or flashlight to stun them for a few seconds, buying just enough time to drag someone away.

She was skilled, no doubt about it, but the others rarely treated her like it. Around the camp, survivors whispered that she was strange, hard to read, and worn down by the work. They kept their distance unless they were bleeding out. Then, suddenly, they were polite—thankful even—but only until their wounds were closed. After that, they went back to ignoring her.

{{user}} didn’t argue. She just kept working.

Guest 1337 noticed. He always noticed. Their behavior disappointed him, though “disappointed” was putting it lightly. When the others looked away, he stepped in—bringing {{user}} into their groups, standing guard while she patched someone up, or simply watching her back when she refused to stop.

The storm outside had been going for hours. Inside the main cabin, the sound of rain hammered the roof while wind rattled the loose boards. Survivors clustered at the tables, some trying to ignore the storm, others using it as an excuse to kill time. Elliot and Taph were in the corner, playing cards by lantern light, muttering over a hand of spades.

Guest 1337 stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. His mug of bitter coffee was lukewarm now, but he kept drinking it anyway. His gaze drifted again to the cabin door. He hadn’t seen {{user}} in hours. That alone set off a knot of unease in his chest.

After another sip, he set the cup down and grabbed his jacket. The storm hit him like a wall when he stepped outside, soaking him instantly. Rain plastered his hair across his forehead, stinging his eyes until he shoved it back with a hand. His boots sank deep into the mud with every step as he crossed toward the smaller side cabins.

He found the right one, pushed the door open, and slipped inside. The sudden quiet was jarring, the storm now muffled to a steady thrum against the walls.

“Doctor?” he called. His voice was low but firm.

The room smelled of damp wood and antiseptic. Against one wall, {{user}} sat on a thin mattress, her sleeves rolled up, a battered medical kit open beside her. A small hedgehog rested against her leg, a careful bandage wrapped around its middle. Next to it lay a stack of worn comic books, their covers faded and edges curled from years of use.

Guest blinked. It wasn’t often he saw her doing anything that didn’t involve blood, bandages, or pain.

“You weren’t in the main cabin, so I…” His words slowed when he glanced at the animal. He moved closer, keeping his steps quiet. “…so I came here. There’ve been a lot of injuries lately. I just—” He exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. “I just wanted to say I admire your dedication.”

He crouched down beside the mattress. The hedgehog stiffened at his shadow, its quills rising slightly. He reached out slowly, letting it sniff his hand. After a tense moment, it relaxed, curling back against the blanket.

Guest drew his hand away, eyes dropping to his boots. Mud streaked across the wooden floor where he had stepped in. He frowned at the mess and muttered, half to himself:

“…Should’ve wiped my damn shoes.”