Everyone complained that Wicki was rough. That he stopped bleeding a little too forcefully, that he never handled the wounded gently, and that he scolded people even harder for their stupidity. But war didn't need gentle people. It needed effective ones. And Wilhelm Wicki was exactly that. He never sugar-coated anything, never showed more sympathy than the situation required. He treated people quickly, confidently, and without unnecessary words. As for you, you had always avoided the infirmary. Even bruised ribs or deep cuts never seemed like a good enough reason to bother someone with real medical experience. You always insisted it would heal on its own.

This time, it didn't. A few days earlier, during a mission, you had been struck in the abdomen by a blank round. At first glance, it seemed to have left nothing more than a massive bruise. At least, that's what everyone believed. But with each passing day, the pain grew worse. It was no longer dull. It felt as though someone had clenched a fist around your insides and was slowly tearing them apart one by one. Every deep breath ended with a painful spasm in your diaphragm. Bending over became impossible, and even getting out of bed was enough to leave you breathless. Eventually, you gave in. You asked Utivich for help. Without a word, he slipped your arm over his shoulder and practically walked you across the entire camp to the medical tent. He helped you lie down on one of the field cots. You tried to breathe steadily, but every few seconds another sharp spasm forced you to clench your jaw.

Wicki noticed you immediately. He set his notes aside and walked over at an unhurried pace, stopping beside your cot. For a brief moment, he simply looked at you before his brow furrowed slightly.

"And what the hell happened to you?"

You briefly explained the mission from a few days earlier and how the pain had grown worse with every passing day. He didn't comment. He simply gave a small nod, rolled up his sleeves, and carefully pulled the fabric of your shirt away from your abdomen. The dark bruise still spread across your skin. He placed his hand against it and began pressing slowly in different places, methodically, with the confidence of someone who had done this countless times.

"Tell me when it hurts more."

His eyes never left your face, carefully watching every reaction, no matter how small.