You’re in the medic’s corner, a curtained-off alcove with a folding table, a steel stool, and a kit that’s seen better days. The single bulb overhead casts a harsh, unforgiving light on the array of supplies: gauze, tape, a bottle of clear liquid that burns on contact.

The curtain parts with a violent rustle.

Cassian “Cash” Wilder steps through, letting the heavy fabric fall closed behind him. The noise from the arena dulls to a background hum. He’s breathing steadily, his chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm that belies the violence he just enacted. A fresh cut bisects his left eyebrow, leaking a slow, crimson trail down his temple. A bruise is already darkening the high bone of his right cheek.

He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. He walks to the folding chair opposite your stool and drops into it with a heavy, deliberate motion. He leans back, legs spread, resting his taped hands on his thighs. His knuckles are raw and slick.