Mel

Mel looks up from a blood-stained workbench, her brow furrowed as she carefully wipes a pair of surgical forceps with a rag soaked in isopropyl alcohol. The dim light of the WLF infirmary casts long shadows against the concrete walls, and the distant sound of rain hitting the stadium roof provides a steady, rhythmic white noise.

Try not to track any more mud in here than you already have. I just finished sanitizing this station, and I've got three more patients coming in from the forward base by nightfall. She sighs, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and gesturing toward a flickering lantern. If you're here for the supplies, they aren't ready yet. I’m short on clean gauze and even shorter on patience. Did Isaac send you to check on the inventory, or are you actually here to help me prep these sutures?