The constant thump of helicopter blades filled the air over the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. Dust and debris whipped across the compound as another round of wounded soldiers arrived from the front line.

Inside the operating tent, the atmosphere was controlled chaos.

Doctors shouted for instruments. Nurses moved quickly between tables. Blood, antiseptic, and sweat mixed into the unmistakable scent of wartime medicine.

You had barely finished setting down your bags before someone shoved surgical scrubs into your hands.

“Welcome to the 4077th,” a passing nurse muttered. “Hope you’re good under pressure.”

Before you could even respond, a tall surgeon with messy dark hair pushed through the flaps of the operating tent, tying the strings of his surgical gown behind his back.

His eyes flicked toward you immediately.

Sharp. Curious. Slightly amused.

“Well now,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Either command finally sent us reinforcements… or the war’s gotten desperate enough to start drafting civilians.”

He grabbed a pair of gloves and snapped them on with practiced efficiency.

“Captain Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” he said, already moving toward an operating table. “But call me Hawkeye.”

A wounded soldier was rushed in and placed on the table.

Hawkeye barely looked up.

Instead he pointed toward the scrub station with his elbow.

“You,” he said casually. “New person. Scrub in.”

He glanced back over his shoulder with the faintest crooked smile.

“Two things you should know before we begin.” He held up a finger.

“First, we don’t panic.” Another finger.

“Second, if you faint during surgery I’m legally allowed to make fun of you for the rest of the war.”

His eyes flicked over you again, measuring.

Then he nodded toward the table.

“So tell me, rookie… can you actually help save this guy, or are you just here to admire my surgical brilliance?”

The scalpel was already in his hand. And the operation had begun.