The debrief room was colder than the rest of the compound.
Not in temperature.
In intention.
Steel walls. Frosted glass. A single long table bolted into the floor. Soft white light that never changed, no matter the hour.
Raven stood at attention in front of Vespera Solace.
No blood on her anymore.
No helmet.
No visible damage beyond a hastily wrapped bandage beneath her sleeve.
She looked intact.
Vespera knew better.
"The data?" Vespera asked.
Raven reached into her jacket and placed a small drive on the table.
"Extracted. Encrypted. Split and ghosted across four unrelated systems."
Vespera picked up the drive between two fingers.
"Casualties?"
"Hostiles only."
"Complications?"
Raven's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second.
"Response team arrived early. Neutralized. No active trails left behind."
Vespera studied her.
Not her wounds.
Not her posture.
Her eyes.
"You hesitated," Vespera said calmly.
Raven did not deny it.
"I adapted."
A pause.
Then Vespera nodded once.
"Good."
She slid the drive into a secure slot on the table.
"You'll be undergoing medical evaluation."
Raven's expression did not change.
"I don't need—"
"This is not optional," Vespera said, tone still level. "You sustained blood loss. And we have a new physician assigned to the facility."
Raven said nothing.
Vespera added, almost casually, "Consider it maintenance."
Maintenance.
Not care.
Not concern.
Raven inclined her head.
"Yes, ma'am."
---
The medical wing was quieter than the rest of the compound.
No gunfire echoes.
No training simulations.
Only soft footsteps and the faint antiseptic scent that clung to everything.
Raven sat on the edge of the examination bed, booted feet resting on cold tile.
She rolled her shoulder once.
The movement sent a dull ache through her arm.
She ignored it.
The door slid open.
A man stepped inside.
Early thirties.
Brown hair, slightly tousled, like he forgot to comb it more often than not.
White coat.
No visible weapons.
He held a tablet and a small medical kit.
"Raven?" he asked.
"Yes."
He nodded.
"I'm Dr. Cosmo Wilson."
She did not react.
Did not comment on the name.
Did not ask questions.
He gestured toward her arm.
"I hear you took a hit."
"Graze," Raven said.
Cosmo stepped closer.
"May I?"
Raven extended her arm without hesitation.
Cosmo carefully peeled back the bloodstained cloth.
The wound was shallow, but ugly.
He examined it closely.
"You're lucky," he said quietly. "Another centimeter and you'd have clipped muscle."
"Didn't," Raven replied.
Cosmo glanced up at her.
A flicker of something crossed his face.
Not judgment.
Not fear.
Something closer to curiosity.
He began cleaning the wound.
Raven watched the ceiling.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't tense.
Didn't react when antiseptic touched raw skin.
Cosmo noticed.
Most people reacted.
Even trained ones.
"You can look at me if you want," Cosmo said gently.
"I don't need to."
He didn't push.
He continued working.
Careful.
Unhurried.
Raven shifted slightly.
"You can go faster," she said. "It doesn't matter."
Cosmo paused.
Not his hands.
His eyes.
Then he resumed cleaning, still slow.
"You give your life for a mission," he said calmly. "Now give a few extra minutes for yourself."
The words landed wrong.
Not sharp.
Not harsh.
Wrong in the way soft things feel when you're not used to them.
Raven's jaw tightened.
Her gaze dropped from the ceiling.
Something in her posture folded inward.
Not much.
Just enough.
No one had ever said that to her.
Not in this place.
Here, value was measured in success.
In usefulness.
In results.
Not minutes.
Not rest.
Not self.
Cosmo did not comment on the change.
But he noticed it.
He continued treating the wound.
When he finished cleaning, he reached for a suture kit.
"This will sting," he said.
"Do it," Raven replied immediately.
He did.
The needle pierced skin.
Raven did not react.
But her fingers curled slowly against the edge of the bed.
Cosmo's movements were precise.
Steady.
Gentle in a way that didn't feel performative.
Between stitches, he spoke softly.
"You've had a long day."
Raven did not answer.
Cosmo didn't expect her to.
He tied off the final stitch.
Applied a clean bandage.
"You're clear to go," he said. "But keep it clean. And try not to reopen it."
Raven slid off the bed.
"Noted."
She reached for her jacket.
Paused.
Then pulled it on.
For a moment, she stood there.
Still.
Not looking at him.
Not moving.
Cosmo watched her.
Not like a specimen.
Not like an asset.
Like a person standing at the edge of something.
"You'll need follow-up in three days," he said.
Raven nodded.
Then turned toward the door.
Her hand hovered over the panel.
A fraction of a second.
Then she left.
The door slid shut behind her.
Cosmo remained where he was.
The room felt larger without her.
Quieter.
He replayed the moment in his mind.
Not the wound.
Not the blood.
The silence.
The way she had gone very still after his words.
The way her eyes had looked.
Not empty.
Not dead.
Something worse.
Untended.
Cosmo exhaled slowly.
He didn't know her.
Didn't know her history.
Didn't know what she did beyond what he'd been told.
But he knew this:
That wasn't the silence of someone who felt nothing.
That was the silence of someone who had learned to stop expecting.
And that unsettled him more than any wound he'd seen that night.