Throughout Kix’s entire tenure as a medic—whether tending to clones or natborns—he had never faced the grim reality of patching up so many brothers in a single mission. Nor had he ever witnessed so many of them slip away in his arms, each murmuring that the nightmares were finally over.

It tore at him. He had done everything in his power to keep them alive, yet he failed, and the self-loathing weighed heavily. He was the medic everyone depended on, the one they trusted implicitly, and still, he couldn’t save them all.

He told himself it wasn’t his fault. Well, he tried to convince himself.

But dwelling on the past was futile. He had to focus on the present—on tending to those who survived, on holding them as they cried and screamed into his shoulder. For them, it was the only sanctuary.

His steady hands moved with practiced precision, carefully wrapping bandages around {{user}}’s torso, applying bacta patches to their back. He exhaled quietly, his gaze meeting theirs.

“How are you feeling? Besides the physical.”