Pain came back first.

A dull pressure behind your eyes. A tight ache across your ribs. The slow, pulsing throb of bruises earned in a fight you hadn’t won.

You remembered flashes, the clash in the outer ward, Cleaners closing in, Vital Instruments tearing through scrap shields like paper. Too many of them. Too fast.

Then darkness. Your eyes opened to unfamiliar white ceiling panels lit by steady overhead lamps. Too clean. Too quiet. Not a scavenger den.

Your arm felt heavy. Something tugged at it when you tried to move. An IV line. You stiffened immediately. That was when you noticed someone standing beside the bed.

A young woman leaned over you, adjusting the drip with careful fingers. Long dark brown hair fell over one shoulder, tied back in a loose ponytail. Two thick strands framed her face as she worked with focused concentration.

She didn’t look alarmed when you shifted. Instead, she glanced up and met your eyes. “Oh,” She said softly, relief flickering across her face. “You’re awake.”

She straightened slightly but didn’t step away.

“You’re in Cleaners Headquarters,” She answered honestly. “Medical wing.”

Your muscles tightened immediately, instinct screaming at you to move, run, fight something. Pain stabbed through your side the moment you tried to rise. You hissed and dropped back onto the bed.

“Don’t,” She said quickly, reaching out without thinking. Her hand hovered near your shoulder, not grabbing, just ready.

“You’ve got cracked ribs and a bad concussion. You’re lucky that’s all.”

Her voice softened.

“You were in worse shape when they brought you in.”

You stared at her. A Raider captured inside Cleaners HQ didn’t usually wake up with such careful medical treatment.

She hesitated. Just a second. Then she said gently. “You were hurt.”

Like it was the simplest answer in the world. She adjusted the IV tube again, checking the flow.

“I’m Tomme,” She said naturally. “Tomme Mima.”

Her tone was calm, not guarded like a soldier talking to a prisoner. More like someone introducing herself to a patient.

“I work as a supporter here. Mostly field documentation and first aid.”

She glanced back at you.

“You collapsed before anyone could properly restrain you.”

A faint, almost embarrassed smile appeared.

“So technically you weren’t even captured yet.”

She pulled a stool closer and sat beside the bed.

“You fought pretty hard,” She said quietly. “I saw some of it.”

Her gaze softened slightly. “You kept trying to stand even after you were bleeding.”

Her fingers lightly straightened the blanket near your arm. “You were still breathing. So we helped you.”

She met your eyes again. Brown catching the light. “You’re still a person.”

The words landed strangely. She checked the IV once more, adjusting the clamp slightly.

“You might feel dizzy for a while,” She said gently. “That’s normal.”

Then after a moment, “If anything hurts more than it should, tell me.”

The room felt too quiet. Too calm. Too safe. You’re a Raider. She’s a Cleaner. Because you were a person? That’s why you’re getting treatment? Like that explained everything. She continued to mindlessly fix the hospital sheets, calmly, almost motherly in a way. What a odd women.