Far from the center of the ruined town, near the outskirts where the damage thinned out, one medical tent sat apart from the rest.
Inside, Don, Pyro, and Starboy occupied three narrow field beds—reinforced cots built for rapid deployment.
Each of them wore nothing but plain white drawers. Their skin had been cleaned, wounds treated, but the marks of the fight remained: bruising, abrasions, bandaged cuts that pulled when they shifted.
Beside each bed stood compact medical pylons— metal frames fitted with drip lines and small holographic screens. The displays hovered near eye level, cycling through vitals, muscle strain indicators, and recovery metrics unique to superhuman physiology.
An older woman stood between them.
She moved with unhurried pace, eyes flicking from screen to screen as her fingers tapped notes into a digital pad. Her hair was pulled back tight, streaked with grey, her face lined and set into a permanent look of mild annoyance.
