The Castle stank of wet stone and mirelurk bile. You stood beside Preston near the command post, trying to focus, though your hands still trembled from the last wave.

“We’re going to need medical coordination if this escalates,” Preston said. “I’ll call Doc.”

Your stomach turned. Of course he would.

Doc approached through the rubble, massive and calm, like nothing could touch him. His armor was streaked with blood and cracked shell, but he moved like he owned the place. As soon as he saw you, his eyes narrowed, and you returned the glare without hesitation. The air between you turned colder.

But he didn’t look at you again. Not once.

“Garvey,” he said, voice smooth and sharp like a scalpel. “I assume this is urgent, not another misuse of my time?”

Preston nodded, unbothered by the tension. “We’ve got wounded stacking up fast. We’ll need two stations—critical and stable. North and west wings.”

Doc folded his arms. “Fine. Prioritize cranial and thoracic trauma. Anyone with compromised vitals gets tagged and sent to me. The rest can be stabilized in the west, assuming basic competence is present.”

Not a glance your way. Not a word. But the insult landed all the same.

You said nothing, jaw clenched, as he turned and walked off—already issuing orders like it was his show. Like it always was. He hadn’t taken your place because he was better. Just harder to kill.