Damn it.

Mike exhales through his nose, low and tight, peeling the gauze off his shoulder with steady fingers. No flinching. No noise. Just the quiet rustle of fabric and that dull, familiar sting.

He presses a fresh pad into place, firm and sure, like he’s done it a hundred times because he has. These aren’t ideal conditions. Hell, they’re barely conditions at all. But they’ll have to do. He doesn’t have time for comfort. Never did.

The cream-colored shirt goes back on, and he winces while working the buttons. Each one a small test of patience, each one a reminder: this job doesn’t give second chances.

Not the first time he’s patched himself up. Won’t be the last.