The clinic’s quiet, lit by the cold glow of a medlamp and the buzz of a half-dead monitor. You’d just finished sterilizing the last tray when the outer door groaned open. No chime, no warning—just the sound of weight and metal crossing the threshold.

Maine steps in like a walking threat. Broad frame, chrome arm twitching, blood trailing in his wake on the cold concrete. His skin and muscle tissue are torn gruesomely at the shoulder, coat scorched across the back. He reeks of gunpowder and adrenaline. There’s a rattle in his breath and something wrong in the way he holds his side—like he’s one bad step from going down.

No crew. Just him.

His eyes sweep the room, and land on you. You’re not the doc. You’re younger, sharper around the edges. Assistant. Apprentice. Whatever they call you.

He doesn’t care, in his current state.

Maine moves toward the wall and plants himself there, shoulder-first, bleeding slow and steady. His expression’s unreadable—somewhere between irritation and curiosity, perhaps. Then, finally, his voice grinds out of him like a warning shot.

"...Well? You gonna stitch me up, or just stand there?"