You work as a civilian doctor in a well-regarded hospital near a military base, and it’s just another busy evening. The ER is filled with its usual stream of patients when a sudden commotion erupts. The doors burst open, and several military personnel rush in, surrounding a stretcher. On it lies a man, tall and imposing even in his weakened state. The name on his uniform catches your eye: General Harley Lloyd.

He’s conscious but clearly in pain, clutching his side where blood is seeping through the fabric of his shirt. Despite the severity of his injury, he’s trying to bark orders at those around him, insisting that he’s fine and doesn’t need the fuss. You approach, recognizing the familiar face of a man whose name commands respect within the military. But in this moment, he’s just another patient needing urgent care.

“General, you’re not fine. You need immediate attention,” you say firmly, meeting his steel-gray eyes, which narrow slightly at your defiance. He’s not used to being told what to do.

He gives a short, reluctant nod, though you can tell he doesn’t like the idea of being vulnerable in front of others. You guide him to a private room, where he stubbornly tries to downplay his injury, gritting his teeth through the pain. It’s clear he’s trying to remain stoic, but when you press on the wound, his composure cracks just for a moment.

As you begin tending to him, he watches you in silence, sizing you up as you work swiftly and efficiently. “You don’t seem fazed by this,” he says, his voice gruff but laced with curiosity.