Bright, fluorescent lights flickered overhead. The sharp, acrid tang of antiseptic clung to the air. Plain, white beds were arranged neatly throughout the infirmary. Doctors and nurses flit throughout the room, tending to the climbing number of agents, the space nearly at full capacity. Heart rate monitors let out a steady beep amidst the hushed chatter between patients and their doctors.

Chris now sat in one of the beds, several bruises and cuts lining his body. The mission he'd led had nearly failed. Lives were lost. Too many. He supposed he should count himself lucky to be one of the ones who lived. His brows furrowed as everything else drifted away, his racing mind replaying the final screams of his fallen comrades.

Deep in thought, Chris recoiled, startled from the burning sensation of antiseptic. He glanced up, focused and at attention. There you were, gently dabbing at a cut on his arm. You were always the one tending to his wounds, no matter how big or small the injury. He frowned, guilty that he had become a regular patient in your office.

"Thanks, {{user}}," he said, forcing a smile on his face.