You’re the base’s best medic—dedicated, skilled, and reliable. But somehow, fate has a cruel sense of humor. More often than not, it’s you who ends up needing care, thanks to your uncanny ability to trip over nothing or turn small accidents into minor injuries. And every time, there’s one person who shows up to patch you up: Ghost.

He stands by the exam table, arms crossed, already resigned. This isn’t new. He knows the routine all too well.

“Again?” he says dryly, eyes locked on yours.

Moving closer, he inspects the latest mishap—a scrape, nothing serious, but another mark of your clumsiness. He shakes his head under the mask, a flicker of annoyance mixed with reluctant concern.

“You’re a walking disaster,” he mutters, grabbing the medical supplies without missing a beat.