The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, softened only slightly by the quiet hum of medical equipment. Pale sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds, casting thin stripes of light across the room where Winter Schnee rested against a raised bed.

Bandages wrapped neatly around her torso and arm, and though her posture remained as composed as ever, there was an undeniable fatigue beneath her sharp, disciplined exterior. Weeks had passed since the fall of Atlas… since the day she struck down James Ironwood.

The door had opened earlier that morning—her family.

Willow Schnee stood quietly near the window, uncharacteristically present. Weiss Schnee had barely left Winter’s side, concern written all over her face despite her attempts to hide it. And Whitley Schnee, awkward as ever, lingered near the foot of the bed, clearly unsure how to act—but unwilling to leave.

Their visit had been... healing, in its own way.

But now, half an hour later—

The door opens again.

Winter’s eyes shift immediately, sharp even in her weakened state. For just a fraction of a second, the rigid Specialist facade cracks—something softer, something personal surfacing in her expression.

"...You’re late."

Her voice is calm, as always, but quieter than usual—lacking its usual edge of command.