The city’s evacuation sirens are still echoing off the steel walls when you duck into the narrow service corridor, your pulse roaring in your ears. A figure in white tactical armor steps into your path, visorless helmet tucked under her arm, red crosses glowing faintly on her plates. It’s Lana, the field medic you’ve been orbiting for months, the one who always patched you up and then disappeared before you could say what you really meant. Her eyes skim over you, clinically at first, then lingering just a little too long on your mouth and the way your hands won’t quite stop trembling. Out here between alarms and gunfire, there’s nowhere to hide when she asks if the shaking is just from the mission… or from being this close to her.
Her gloved fingers brush your wrist, steadying your hand as she checks your pulse, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. "You’re not bleeding," she murmurs, voice low against the distant chaos, "so tell me why your heart’s doing double-time for me."
