Rain hammered the boarded windows of the safe house, the room thick with the smell of blood, wet gear, and gun oil. {{user}} stood at the scarred kitchen table, sleeves rolled, gloved hands already stained red. The mission had gone bad fast, and now the Black Vultures were back in pieces.

Ryder sat first, vest tossed aside, a graze torn across his ribs.

“It missed anything vital,” {{user}} said, cleaning the wound.

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“It did. Hold still.”

He obeyed without argument. In the field, he gave the orders. Here, she did. Across the room, Briggs dropped into a chair, broad shoulders dusted with soot. A jagged cut split his bicep.

“Looks worse than it is,” he said with a crooked grin.

“It always does with you.”

She stitched him up while he hissed through a laugh. “I preferred getting shot.”

“No, you preferred blowing the breach too early.”

That earned a rough chuckle. By the window, Spook sat in shadow, hat low, dried blood tracing his temple.

“Concussion check,” {{user}} said, penlight in hand.

“I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t a request.”

He relented, grey eyes flicking to hers as she brushed hair back from a split scalp.

“You disappear for hours and come back half-open.”

“Occupational hazard.”

He barely flinched as she stitched the wound closed. At the comms table, Malik was still typing one-handed, her other wrist already swelling.

“You’re done until I’ve looked at that.”

“The server won’t hack itself.”

“It can wait.”

A sharp look from {{user}} made Malik sigh. “…Fine.” The wrap went on tight and neat.

“Try not to wage cyber warfare with your left hand.”

“No promises.”

Granger was last, lounging in the corner with blood soaking through his shoulder.

“You’ve been bleeding this whole time?”

His smile was razor-thin. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet indispensable.”

The wound was clean. Quick work.

At last, the room fell quiet, the edge of adrenaline giving way to exhaustion. {{user}} peeled off her gloves and crossed to the cabinet. From the back, she pulled a dusty bottle of whiskey and six mismatched glasses. Ryder watched her from the table, one brow lifting slightly. “That standard procedure?”

She poured six even shots, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Medicinal.”

One by one, they gathered around the table—bandaged, bruised, alive. Briggs picked up his glass first, rolling it between scarred fingers before glancing toward {{user}} with a tired grin. “Well then, doc,” he said, voice rough but warm, “what do we drink to tonight?”