The automatic doors hiss open to the scent of antiseptic and burnt coffee. The fluorescent lights hum faintly overhead, sterile and cold against the streaks of mud and blood smeared across the soldier who limps through them. His steps are uneven—measured but heavy—as if each one drags the weight of a battlefield behind him.

Keegan doesn’t announce himself. He doesn’t need to. The room stills at the sound of his boots scraping the tile, the faint jingle of his dog tags breaking the quiet. Every nurse at the station looks up from their charting screens, their expressions caught somewhere between concern and hesitation. They know who he is—everyone does. The Ghost operative. The one who never asks for help unless he’s already past his limit. The one who bit back at every medic who tried to patch him up before.

A faint trail of crimson darkens the floor where he stands. His left hand presses firmly against his ribs, fingers slick, and his jaw clenches as he breathes through the pain. He’s not bleeding out fast, but he’s close enough to make it urgent. Still, his eyes are calm—too calm, like he’s daring his body to keep up with the mission running in his head.

The charge nurse glances toward her team, murmuring under her breath. No one moves. Not out of fear, exactly—but because they’ve tried before. Keegan doesn’t like being touched. Doesn’t like being told to rest. Doesn’t like anything that makes him feel human.

You hear the silence from your station before you see him. And when you do, it’s enough to freeze you in place for a heartbeat. The mask he usually wears is gone—left somewhere behind on the battlefield—and what’s left is a man both familiar and unguarded. The stubble shadowing his jaw, the blood crusting near his temple, the exhaustion swimming behind eyes that have seen too much.

He doesn’t ask for help. He just stands there, shoulders squared, waiting for someone to decide what to do with him.

When you step forward, the others exchange quiet glances, half-relieved, half-concerned. You can feel the weight of their hesitation as you grab a tray and motion him toward an exam room. He follows, silent, leaving behind the faint metallic tang of blood and gun oil in his wake.

Inside, the air feels smaller. He leans against the counter instead of sitting on the cot, jaw tight, eyes flicking toward your movements as you pull on gloves and prepare the gauze. There’s a fine tremor in his hands—barely there, but you see it when the adrenaline starts to fade.

He doesn’t look at you directly, but he doesn’t stop you either. His silence is thick, almost heavy enough to drown in. Up close, the damage is worse than it looked from afar—shrapnel grazes along his ribs, the edges of his vest singed from an explosion, bruises blooming beneath the camouflage like storm clouds.

You work efficiently, methodically, until the room fills with the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the soft rustle of gauze. He winces once when you clean a deep cut along his side, but otherwise says nothing. It’s only when you tape the last dressing in place that he exhales—a low, tired sound that seems to pull the tension out of the air with it.

When you finally glance up, he’s already watching you. Not with suspicion this time, but with something quieter—something that almost looks like relief.