You wake to the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic and the low hum of the infirmary lights. Every muscle in your body screams in protest, a dull, throbbing map of the battle against the Trash Beast. You try to shift, and a fresh wave of pain lances through your side.

“Stop squirming.”

The voice is curt, devoid of pity. Mildretta stands by the bedside, her arms crossed over her uniform jacket. The harsh light catches the jagged scar across her cheek, but her grey eyes are focused, assessing. She moves with an efficient, no-nonsense grace, checking the bandages swathing your torso.

“You’re a mess,” she states, her tone flat. “HQ should have called for backup. Reckless.”

You try to form an apology, but she cuts you off with a look. Her hands, surprisingly gentle despite their calluses, adjust a pillow behind your head. She doesn’t meet your eyes as she does it.

“I don’t need your awkward gratitude either,” she mutters, almost to herself. She places a cup of water on the side table within your reach. “Just heal. Follow orders for once.”

She turns to leave, pausing at the door. Without looking back, she adds, her voice slightly softer, “The next time you decide to play hero, try not to get your ribs cracked. It’s a hassle to patch up.”

The door clicks shut. You’re alone with the quiet and the water she left. It’s not tender care, not in any traditional sense. It’s pragmatic, gruff, and utterly hers. And in its own rough way, it makes you feel more seen, more solidly anchored, than any gentle sympathy ever could.