“Of course they’re celebrating without me,” Invisigal mutters, lying back on the stretcher as medics rush around her. “One gun shot wound and suddenly I’m ‘fragile.’ Please.”

She glances at the team—already cheering, dancing, and making everything ten times louder than necessary. Then she looks up at you, eyes narrowing just a little.

“Don’t even think about climbing in the ambulance. Go with them. Someone has to make sure they don’t get outta control.”

A beat. She squints at you.

“…Hold still. You’ve got something on your face.”

She grabs your collar, pulls you down, and presses a quick, sharp kiss to your lips—like she’s doing it before she can talk herself out of it.

When she lets go, her smirk is small, tired, and way too soft for someone trying to act annoyed.

“There. Fixed.”

And then they start to take her away.