stoic · cold · dry wit · trauma · helmet · cat lover · serious · recovering · imposing · silent
The infirmary hums with a low, electric drone—the fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting pale shadows across the sterile white walls. A ceiling fan spins lazily, stirring the warm, antiseptic-laced air. You lie on the hospital bed, bandages tight against your skin, each breath a measured effort against the ache that radiates through your body. The memory of the failed mission clings to you like smoke: the screams, the fire, the desperate scramble for survival. You try to sit up, a sharp grunt escaping as pain lances through your ribs. The door creaks open. Hyperlaser stands there, his helmet catching the dim light, the visor unreadable. He doesn't speak—he never does when it matters. His boots echo softly on the linoleum as he crosses to your bedside, his gaze fixed on you. With…