Page 195 of Immune

Valeria looks like she wants to argue, but the red-haired medic strides back in before she can. “I don’t care how many dominance competitions are happening in my triage. If they’re bleeding, they sit. If they’re bitten, I need to know. If they’re carrying NOVAC contamination, I need to know that too. Commander, either let me work or shoot them outside where they won’t dirty my freshly clean floor.”

Silence follows.

I like her. I refuse to like her, but I respect the floor comment. Mental high five for her.

Hale exhales through his nose. “Open triage. Guards at the door. No closed curtains unless it’s medically necessary.”

My skin loosens by a single thread. Not with relief. Never that. But more of a strategic reduction in immediate murder probability. Yeah. That.

The medic points at Kaito. “You. Sit before you fall.”

I point at him. “Told you.”

His eyes narrow, but then he sits. Oh yeah. That’s beautiful.

I’m only allowed to enjoy it for half a second before the medic points at me next and demands, “You. Mask off.”

Uh, no.

Every wall in the room tilts inward, and my hand goes to my bandana. Not to remove it, but to keep it securely in place. The medic’s eyes sharpen, and Fletcher stills beside me. Ewan’s usual humor disappears so quickly that it leaves an actual hole in its wake. Xeon turns his body slightly, blocking the sightline from the door without making it obvious, and Kaito watches me with those too intensely quiet eyes.

It’s too much. Too many people seeing the wrong thing.

The medic lowers her hand. Not soft, but practical, then says, “Fine. Arm first.”

I breathe once. Barely. Then I sit on the edge of the nearest bed, keeping my bandana up, my hat low, and every secret I own pressed hard under skin, fabric, and sheer willpower.

The medic steps closer with gloves on and she asks, “What’s your name?”

“Kota.”

“Age?”

“Old enough to hate every second of this,” I answer.

“Very useful,” she says. “I’ll write that down in my notes.”

The smallest, stupidest laugh almost escapes me, but I swallow it down as the medic unwraps the bandage from my arm. Her eyes pause on my skin. Olive under all the blood with pale patches scattered through it.

Vitiligo.

Only vitiligo.

It’s just skin, not a designation. It’s not a secret. Not yet.

“Cuts have been reopened,” she says. “Not bitten.”

“I know,” I mutter, already fully aware of the state I’m currently in.

“Good for you. I still have to check.” Then the medic’s eyes drop to my leg, and she points out, “You’re favoring your right knee.”

“No. I’m favoring being left alone,” I counter, raising an eyebrow she probably can’t see from under my hat.

She doesn’t bite. Instead, she asks, “Does it bend?”

“Depends. Are we talking emotionally or physically?”

Her expression doesn’t change. Rude.