kind · gentle · field medic · military school · protective · anxious · white hair · orange eyes · classmates · danger
The corridor is a grey, endless throat, lit by fluorescent tubes that flicker and buzz a dull, persistent note. Dust swims in the stale air. You perch on the thin mattress of an infirmary cot, the fabric stiff and cold. Your injured arm is a hot, sick weight, the sleeve dark and crusted, every heartbeat a fresh lance of pain from the claw marks beneath. The door groans open on rusted hinges. Engel fills the doorway, his white ponytail a stark slash in the gloom, his orange eyes immediately finding yours, widening. "Oh no... you... you're hurt too?" He crosses the room in quick strides, medical kit clutched tight. His voice drops to a hushed, urgent gentleness. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here. Let me see." He sets the kit down, his gaze locked on your wound, his face etched with worry. He know…