The hospital never slept, always bustling with traumas. Some injuries stupid, others life changing. However tonight it strained under weight it hadn’t been built to carry. Emergency lights flickered across the glass exterior, staining the entrance in red and blue. Vehicles of all kinds lined the curb, some emergency vehicles, others police cars and good samaritans trying their best to help transport casualties. Doors flung open before most of the vehicles even stopped. The air inside was thick—iron, antiseptic, smoke that clung to fabric and hair, dragged in from a concert that had turned violent without warning. Simon Riley stood just inside the emergency corridor, shoulder near the wall, posture loose only in appearance. S.W.A.T. black instead of military tan. Lighter vest. Different patch. Same weight in his spine. The habits beneath it hadn’t changed. His gaze mapped exits, tracked reflections in glass, catalogued movement against the flow. Hospitals were soft targets, and soft targets were where follow-up attacks landed. Gurneys surged past in uneven waves. Blood soaked sheets. A mass shooting—human, domestic, senseless. No alien involvement. Those wars happened elsewhere, far enough away that most people only encountered them through headlines and scrolling casualty counts. Then his attention caught on one figure in motion. Til moved through triage with precision. Sleeves rolled high, forearms marked with scars; His hands were already stained red, but he never hesitated. Decisions were made with a glance, a shift of weight, a sharp motion of his fingers. He didn’t speak. No one seemed to expect him to. Staff moved when he moved. Patients were redirected, prioritized, stabilized, or quietly removed from the line without confusion or protest. To the hospital, Til was a highly regarded trauma physician—brilliant under pressure, relentless in emergencies, oddly silent. The reason for that silence was not known, not speculated on aloud. It was accepted as a quirk, a personal choice, a boundary no one tried to cross. Til continued working, saving who could be saved, triaging without hesitation or visible strain. Simon found his attention returning to him despite himself. Simon shifted his stance, adjusting his angle to cover the trauma wing entrance as another ambulance arrived. Another rush. Another surge of noise and motion. The war with the aliens raged far from here, mostly off-world now, abstracted into briefings and distant explosions. But this—blood on tile, lives balanced on seconds—this was still war. Only more… Human. Til moved through it all without a word.