I cut her off. "Medical first."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my face must stop her. She nods once, movements careful as she opens her door.
The walk to the infirmary feels longer than usual. Every step echoes in the empty hallway.
At this hour, most of the team has dispersed to private corners—licking wounds, drowning ghosts, processing the weight of what we did.
WhatIdid.
The medical room is exactly as we left it this morning—stark white walls, metal cabinets, the perpetual scent of antiseptic. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unforgiving.They catch every scrape, every bruise, every spot of blood on our skin.
Eli's already waiting, his face carefully neutral as he gestures to the exam table. "Shirt off," he says to me. Not a request.
I comply without argument, wincing as the fabric pulls at dried blood. The movement sends fresh pain shooting through my ribs. Sloane's sharp intake of breath tells me it looks as bad as it feels.
Eli works in silence, cleaning wounds with practiced efficiency. His touch is clinical but gentle as he probes my ribs, checking for breaks. I focus on my breathing—slow, controlled, hiding the pain that flares with each press of his fingers.
"Three cracked," he finally says. "Maybe four. You're lucky they didn't puncture anything."
Lucky. Right.
He moves to my hands next, tsking at the torn skin from where I forced the zip ties. The antiseptic stings, but I welcome it. Physical pain is easier to process than the mess in my head.
"These'll need stitches," he mutters, already threading a needle.
I watch him work, remembering other nights like this.
Other wounds.
Other battles that left marks we still carry. Eli's always been our anchor—the one who puts us back together when the world tries to break us apart.
"You're going to need to take it easy for a few weeks," he says as he ties off the last stitch. "No heavy lifting. No training. And for God's sake, no more fighting."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but I appreciate it anyway.
He turns to Sloane next, patching up her smaller wounds with the same careful attention. She submits to his examination without protest, but I catch the way she flinches when his fingers ghost over particularly tender spots.
"The leg wound is holding," he says after checking her bandages. "But watch for infection. And try to stay off it as much as possible for the next few days."
Sloane nods, not meeting his eyes. The guilt radiating off her is almost tangible.
Eli packs away his supplies, movements deliberate and measured. "I'll leave you two to talk," he says quietly. "But Logan—take the painkillers. You're no good to anyone if you can't breathe properly."
He sets two white pills on the counter before slipping out, closing the door with a soft click that feels oddly final.
The silence descends again, heavier this time.
I stand, ignoring the protest from my ribs, and move to check Sloane's injuries myself.
Need to see with my own hands that she's really here. Really safe.
My touch is gentle as I examine the bruises on her wrists from the restraints, the scrapes on her arms, the small cut above her eyebrow. Each mark is a reminder of how close we came to losing her.
The anger I've been holding back finally breaks through.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
My voice comes out rougher than intended. She starts to pull away, but I keep hold of her wrist—not tight, just present.
