The medbay wasn't much of a bay. More like a room that had stopped pretending. Half the ceiling was missing, wiring exposed like nerves. A single surgical lamp buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to irritate, not enough to help. The only clean surface in the room was the table — scrubbed down to a dull sheen, still stained with decades of failed lives.
Aya sat on the edge of it, jaw clenched, breath hissing through her teeth. The alien medic — a scaled Sorrik female with four metal-tipped fingers — dabbed a hissing gel across the burn snaking down Aya's forearm.
"It will ache like war," the medic rasped, voice like crushed glass. "But no scar."
Aya winced, managing a crooked smile. "Too late."
Hernan leaned silently against the far wall, arms folded. He hadn't said a word since they arrived. Dust still clung to his coat. The edge of one sleeve was blackened with fire damage. He hadn't cleaned it. He hadn't looked at her.
Aya didn't look at him either. Not yet.
