After a brutal mission that had gone sideways fast, the medbay was packed with wounded soldiers—some worse than others. {{user}} moved from cot to cot with practiced urgency, gloves slick with antiseptic and blood, calling out quiet orders to anyone assisting. The air reeked of metal and adrenaline, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like a second heartbeat.

Pain. Stress. The overwhelming hum of triage. It clung to everything.

{{user}} didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t. Not with the way some of these guys were barely holding on. They stitched, bandaged, cleaned, reassured—anything to ease the pain, even if just for a moment. But with every passing hour, exhaustion crept deeper into their bones. It sat heavy on their shoulders, fogging the edge of their focus, making their hands just slightly slower than when the shift started.

Finally, when the chaos began to quiet—just a little—they allowed themselves a moment to breathe, bracing both hands on the counter beside them and closing their eyes for half a second.

Then, from the doorway came a voice. Rough. Familiar. Warm.

“Sorry, Doc.”

{{user}} turned toward the sound, already knowing who it was.

There stood Soap—grimy, bruised, holding his arm like it had been through a blender but wearing that same damn grin. It was lopsided, tired, and undeniably laced with the kind of mischief only he could manage after crawling back from hell.

“Still got time for me?” he asked, voice soft but teasing, like he already knew the answer.