RONAN Speech tried to form, but it went nowhere. A hard, foreign pressure filled my throat, solid and unyielding. Realization followed fast. A ventilator tube sat deep in my airway, taped tight against my face. Panic flashed through me, sharp and blinding, a pure animal reaction. It lasted less than a second. After everything the last forty-eight hours had piled onto my body and mind, a tube down my throat barely mattered. Compared to explosions, screams, and falling fire, it felt almost insignificant. The head turned slightly to the right, as far as stiff muscles and restraints would allow. Two drones drifted into view. Each was round and flat, about the size of a hockey puck.They hovered effortlessly over the doctor’s shoulders, perfectly still, as if locked in place by invisible rails. Their dark shells reflected surgical lights in smooth, curved highlights. The woman’s hands moved with calm, practiced confidence. No hesitation. No wasted motion. She worked over a black sheet stretched tight across my chest and stomach. The material clung to every contour of my torso, sealing me in from collarbone to waist. Images bloomed across the surface of the sheet. Layered diagrams unfolded in soft light. Bone structure. Torn tissue. Hairline fractures. Internal bleeding marked in precise color. The drones projected a live view of my insides directly onto the material. Flesh and muscle peeled away digitally, revealing damage without a single incision. The doctor never needed to look away. Everything she needed floated inches above my body. Attention locked onto the display. Wonder pushed through exhaustion for the first time in what felt like an eternity. It was a clean, sharp feeling, almost childlike. Awe had survived somehow. This was the battlefield medical technology I had followed for years. Classified briefings. Leaked demos. Carefully edited documentaries. I had absorbed every detail like a fan tracing the evolution of a masterpiece. Seeing it in person was different. Being inside it was unreal. A bitter humor surfaced, quiet but clear. All this brilliance, all this innovation, and the cost of experiencing it was nearly dying. The thought almost made me smile. Tape held the tube firmly in place. My lips could not move. No smirk escaped. The humor stayed locked inside my skull, private and fleeting.The doctor held a compact tool shaped like a small pistol. A vial of clear liquid was docked near the top, locked in with surgical precision. Every few seconds she pulled the mechanism back, then guided it forward again, slow and controlled. The angle limited what I could see directly, but the projected image told the full story. An injector thinner than a hair reached inside me. It fused fractured ribs back together with microscopic precision. Piece by piece. Layer by layer. Seam by seam. A question surfaced, slow and unsettling. Why was there no pain? No anesthetic haze dulled my thoughts. Awareness stayed sharp. The dull throb from my head wound pulsed in steady rhythm. Smaller aches whispered from arms, legs, and shoulders. But beneath the black sheet, there was nothing. No burning. No pressure. No screaming nerves. The realization settled in with a sense of quiet amazement. The material blocked pain signals completely while leaving everything else untouched. Nerves still spoke to my heart. Lungs still followed commands. Blood flowed. Breath moved. Everything that mattered worked. Only suffering was silenced. Billions had been poured into this technology. Years of research. Endless testing. Entire programs built around the idea of keeping soldiers alive long enough to fight another day. Now that investment was wrapped around my chest, keeping me breathing. Fear struck without warning. It was sudden and violent. The stomach tightened hard. Muscles clenched on instinct. Breath hitched uselessly against the tube. Something was wrong. The thought arrived whole, ugly and unavoidable. The doctor glanced to the side. One of the projected diagnostic icons had already flagged the shift in vitals. “He’s starting to panic,” she said. “Keep him calm.” The nurse stepped closer. Her presence filled my narrowed vision. A smile appeared on her face. It looked genuine, but strained at the edges, like something practiced under pressure. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “Just focus on me. Don’t think about what Doctor Freeman is doing. She’s the best there is.” Eyes blinked twice, slow and deliberate. Curiosity flickered across her expression. The contact lenses powered up.Virtual vision flooded in all at once, bright and overwhelming. Data stacked rapidly. Messages from the commanding officer’s office. Status pings from what remained of my Army Information Warfare team. Then the personal messages forced their way through. Mother. Father. Again. And again. They were pushed aside. Not deleted. Just ignored. Guilt burned immediately, sharp and familiar, but there was no room for it now. Focus shifted to the nurse’s wrist. A flexible tablet wrapped snugly around her arm, its surface dark until my vision brushed against it. The interface unfolded instantly. A command list appeared beside it. Options scrolled past. Deep system access. Base code. Overrides. All ignored. The cursor paused over a simple communication command. A one-second hold triggered a dialogue window. A virtual keyboard appeared. Eyes moved quickly, snapping from letter to letter. The message formed without hesitation. Short. Direct. Urgent. The nurse looked down. The sudden glow from the screen pulled her attention. “How did you do that?” “What?” Doctor Freeman asked, never lifting her eyes from my ribs. “He just sent a message to my tablet.” Annoyance edged Freeman’s voice. “Why is that strange?” “Because I’m in secure mode,” the nurse said. “Only our medical unit and the commander’s office can reach this.” Freeman gave a short, dry laugh. “Now you understand why he wasn’t in uniform. He’s one of the spooks pulled from The Fort.”Eyes closed. The talking needed to stop. “What did he send?” Freeman asked. The nurse swallowed. “He says we need to move him. He says the people behind the attack are hunting him.” Eyes opened again. Freeman stared straight at me, her expression flat and assessing. “That’s a bold claim. Even if it were true, they won’t need to chase far if I don’t fix these ribs properly. Hard to run when breathing hurts.” She was not wrong. Neither was I. The drone strike had been aimed directly at my team. We were dismantling AI propaganda systems that threatened entire regions. The Glaive’s onboard cannon had targeted our exact location. Back at The Fort, my section had been singled out. People like us were liabilities. Threats. Anyone close to us became collateral damage. Movement was no longer optional. What remained of the team had to be rebuilt. Tracking methods exposed. Locations hidden. Countermeasures designed. Then retaliation planned, careful and precise. The people responsible could not be allowed another chance. Focus shifted upward again. Messages from the unit’s commanding officer repeated, growing more urgent with each one. A response went out. Condition explained. Concerns laid bare. The reply came faster than expected.