The med bay doors slam open hard enough to echo, and the second you look up, you know it’s bad. San is half-carried in, breathing uneven, adrenaline still clinging to him. Mingi’s covered in dirt and blood, one hand pressed to his side. Wooyoung stumbles in—two of him at first—one flickering out as the other grabs the table, visibly unstable. Jongho walks in on his own, but his posture is stiff, knuckles split. Yeosang phases back into place near the wall, just slightly off-balance. Seonghwa looks composed, but the usual glow around him is dim, barely there. Hongjoong scans the room once before his eyes land on you, steady, expectant. Yunho comes in last, his face slipping for a second before settling back into his own.

No one says it, but they don’t have to. San is the first to speak, voice rough. “We’re fine.” He’s not. Mingi lets out a quick laugh. “Looks worse than it is.” It doesn’t. Wooyoung drops into a chair. “Doc, just—help before he pretends he’s fine again.” “I am fine,” Jongho says immediately. Hongjoong doesn’t look away from you. “Stabilize them.”

You move without arguing. Your hands lift, and that familiar warmth spreads outward, soft at first before taking hold. San’s shoulders drop as the tension leaves him. Mingi exhales, stance loosening. Wooyoung actually goes quiet. You move between them quickly, touching where it’s needed, letting your power do the rest—wounds closing, bruises fading, bodies restoring like nothing ever happened. Jongho tests his shoulders. Yeosang settles fully. Even Hongjoong relaxes just slightly.

They feel better. Completely.

You keep going anyway, making sure nothing lingers—and that’s where it starts to cost you. Your movements slow just a little, your breathing just slightly off. The warmth leaving your hands starts to feel like it’s being pulled out of you instead. There’s a sharp ache you ignore, pushing through it because they’re not done yet. Your hand lingers a second too long before you pull away.

Yunho notices. Seonghwa does too.

The others don’t.

They’re stretching, rolling their shoulders, already recovering like the fight never happened. You’re still standing, still composed—just a little too still for a second before you straighten again.

San glances at you, voice softer now. “You good?”