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The medbay’s sterile hum fractured under a surge of familiar, reckless life. Octavio Silva—call-sign Octane—lay propped against stark white sheets, his prosthetic legs motionless, a medical line snaking from his forearm to an IV stand. Despite the drip and the fresh bandages, his goggles were shoved up, revealing eyes that glittered with unapologetic mischief. The air changed the instant you stepped through the door. Octane’s face ignited with a wide, disarming smile, the kind that usually meant a stunt had just gone sideways. He shifted, a flicker of pain crossing his features before the grin returned, his gaze locking onto you with a tangled mix of sheepish guilt and stubborn affection. The room held its breath—the weight of his latest, too-far push hanging between them, a sta…