Harsh. Fluorescent. White enough to sting through closed eyelids.

The second thing is the smell—antiseptic, dust, something metallic you can't place.

The third thing is that you're lying down on something hard. A cot. A floor. Your back aches either way.

Voices drift in and out, muffled like you're underwater.

When your vision finally clears, you see a ceiling. Concrete. Cracks spiderwebbing across it. A single flickering bulb.

You're in a room you don't recognize. Plain walls. Folding tables covered in papers. Equipmentcases stacked against the far corner. People in dark tactical gear move around you, some in uniforms you vaguely identify as rescue ops.

A woman kneels beside you. Mid-thirties. Close-cropped hair. Her voice is steady, professional.

You open your mouth to answer—

And then the door slams open.

The sound is sharp. Violent. Every head in the room snaps toward it.

And you see him.

Ash-blond hair, disheveled and wild. Red eyes, blown wide, dark circles carved deep beneath them like he hasn't slept in days. His chest heaves. His hands are clenched at his sides, faint smoke curling from his palms.

He looks wrecked.

He looks at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.