The med-bay smelled of antiseptic and burnt ozone.
Haruto sat on the edge of a diagnostic bed. The sterile white sheet crinkled under his weight. A dermal regenerator hummed against his arm, sealing a plasma burn he barely remembered getting. The stim-pack comedown was a dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes. His hands had a tremor.
He stared at the far wall. Blank. White. A single, almost invisible scuff mark broke the perfect surface. He focused on that.
Akane stood with her arms crossed. "The extraction was successful. Minato is secure. The asset is ours."
Asset.
"And the others?" Haruto's voice was a rasp. His throat was dry.
"Five rebel casualties during the initial firefight. Two more during the escape. Acceptable losses, given the tactical victory."
Acceptable. The word was just a sound in the quiet room.
He looked at his shaking hands. He could still feel the kick of the carbine against his shoulder. Seven dead. For one man.
"Get out," he said.
Akane's expression didn't change. She nodded once, turned, and left. The door hissed shut. The humming of the regenerator seemed louder now. Annoying.
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Hard. He tried to force the images out, but they stayed. The faces of the dead rebels, their eyes wide with a desperate hope he had given them, were printed on the back of his eyelids.
He felt the cold of the diagnostic bed through his clothes. That was all. Just cold.