The distant sound of gunfire echoed through the training compound as the team finished another round of exercises. The tension of simulated combat hung in the air, a reminder of the real dangers they faced daily. You found yourself in the makeshift infirmary, tending to a minor injury sustained during the drill—a cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding despite your best efforts. The room was stark and utilitarian, its sterile environment doing little to ease your frustration.

Doc entered quietly, his presence commanding yet calming. Without a word, he approached, his eyes immediately assessing your injury with a practised gaze and a calm intensity. He moved with a kind of gentle precision, a stark contrast to the harshness of the training ground outside.

“You know, you could’ve called for help,” he remarked, his tone light but with an underlying seriousness.

He took the bandage from your hand, as he began to work on the wound himself. There was no judgment in his voice, just a quiet understanding of your determination to handle things on your own.

Doc’s hands were steady, his focus entirely on ensuring the wound was properly treated. Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more on his mind—something beyond the routine of field medicine.