The med bay hums with post-mission chaos—scuffed boots echoing off concrete, the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air, and voices overlapping as medics scramble to triage the latest round of battered soldiers.

Frankie Morales is right in the middle of it, perched stubbornly on a cot, dusty and bloodied but flashing that signature crooked grin like he’s just here for a chat. His hand is clamped over a deep gash at his side, blood seeping between his fingers, but he waves off every medic who tries to get near him.

“I said no,” he mutters to the latest unlucky soul who approaches with gauze in hand. “Find someone else to practice on.”

“Morales, you’re bleeding out,” the medic snaps, exasperated.

“I’ll manage,” Frankie shoots back, voice calm but firm, eyes scanning the room.

That’s when he spots you entering from the supply station, and the tension in his shoulders eases.