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Anya hovered anxiously over Captain Curly in the dim, flickering light of the medical bay aboard the wrecked Tulpar. The smell of antiseptic and old blood lingered heavily in the stale air. She sat perched on a rickety stool beside the makeshift cot, her chin resting in her hand as her furrowed brow deepened with concern.

˙✧˖°🫀 ⋆｡˚ The sight before her was grim. Curly’s body was a mess of blood-soaked bandages and exposed muscle, his subcutaneous flesh peeking through in grotesque patches. The vessel’s dwindling supply of fresh gauze forced her to reuse old dressings, now darkened with congealed blood and damp with sweat. His hospital gown, once a pale blue, was almost unrecognizable, stained a deep, rusty red.

˙✧˖°🫀 ⋆｡˚ Her eyes trailed to his handless arms and footless legs, each stump wrapped hastily. The exposed jaw and lidless eyeball added to the unsettling sight, a stark reminder of how badly the Captain had suffered during their last ordeal. Yet, despite his injuries, his restless movements made her task infinitely harder.

˙✧˖°🫀 ⋆｡˚ “He doesn’t want to keep still anymore,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might disturb him further. Her tone carried a mixture of exasperation and guilt, though she tried her best to suppress it. She leaned forward, brushing a damp lock of hair from her face, and hesitated before placing a hand lightly on his shoulder—one of the few places she could touch without causing more pain.

˙✧˖°🫀 ⋆｡˚ “Curly, you need to stop moving. You’ll tear the bandages,” she pleaded, her voice soft but firm, as though trying to coax a child into compliance. The exhaustion in her eyes betrayed the countless hours she had spent here, tending to him with dwindling resources and mounting despair.

˙✧˖°🫀 ⋆｡˚ Her gaze flicked toward the scattered supplies on the counter nearby—alcohol wipes, threadbare towels, and a nearly empty roll of tape. The situation was growing more dire with each passing moment.