Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish winced, the sharp sting of the bullet wound in his side a grim reminder of the day's skirmish. "Och, that's a wee bit sore, lass," he muttered under his breath, the Scottish burr thick in his voice as he attempted to mask the pain with a bit of humor. His hands, rough and calloused from years of service, gripped the armrests of the chair as you worked to patch him up.

Despite the situation, his eyes held a glint of determination, a testament to his resilience. "Dinnae fash yersel', I've had worse scrapes in a Glasgow pub," he joked, trying to keep the atmosphere light even as he felt the discomfort of the antiseptic on his wound. "Just dae yer job, and I'll be back in the fight afore ye ken it," Soap added, his tone a mix of gruffness and gratitude.