Chapter 62: Worried Wife

Kael sat on the edge of the examination table, staring at the sterile white wall across from him as the medic peeled away the blood-spotted field gauze from his left forearm.

"Stop moving," the medic said without looking up.

"I’m sitting completely still," Kael replied.

"Your fingers are drumming."

Kael glanced down at his right knee, where his fingertips had indeed been tapping a restless rhythm against the denim of his jeans. He flattened his palm immediately.

The medic shot him a dry look over the rim of her glasses before leaning in to inspect the row of six dark stitches holding his skin together. Cleaning the seam one last time with an antiseptic swab that made Kael’s jaw tighten, she laid down a fresh, breathable compression dressing and secured it neatly at his wrist.

"The sutures are holding cleanly, and there’s no sign of deep tendon damage," she said, testing the wrap’s tension before gently prodding the dark purple bruising along his left collarbone. "That said, you took enough blunt trauma tonight to put a normal man in traction. No heavy lifting, no sparring, and no strenuous exertion until the swelling goes down. If you start coughing up blood, getting dizzy, or feeling sharp pressure when you inhale, you come straight back to the infirmary. Understood?"

"Understood," Kael said.

"Good. Once I sign your discharge slip, you’re free to walk out of here—and don’t confuse ’cleared for discharge’ with ’cleared to go pick another fight.’"

"Trust me, ma’am, one three-on-one a week is plenty."

As the medic stepped over to the counter to update his chart, Kael carefully rolled his left shoulder to test the range of motion. A deep, grinding ache radiated from his collarbone down into his ribs, cutting the movement short.

Out on the asphalt of Depot 12, with adrenaline and Resonance roaring in his ears, he had barely felt the hits after they landed. Now, in the quiet hum of the infirmary, every bruise had a voice. The first scavenger had nearly bowled him off his feet; the second had opened his arm to the meat; the third had slammed him into concrete hard enough to rattle his teeth.

If any one of those three beasts had been half a step faster, or if its claws had landed two inches higher on his neck, all the resolve in the world wouldn’t have kept him out of a body bag.

The heavy door at the end of the bay clicked open, and Marcus Vale stepped inside.

He had shed his dusty tactical vest, leaving him in a dark gray Association sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up over his scarred forearms, a thin manila folder tucked beneath one arm.

"Still breathing, then," Marcus said, stopping at the foot of the bed.

Kael looked up as he slid his arm carefully through the sleeve of his jacket. "I was kind of hoping for a ’good job surviving,’ sir."

"I considered it," Marcus deadpanned. "Decided I didn’t want to spoil you with unrealistic expectations."

A short laugh escaped Kael’s chest—followed immediately by a sharp wince as his bruised ribs protested the movement.

Marcus pointed a thick finger at him. "And that’s why I keep my comedy to a minimum."

"You’re making it tough tonight, Instructor."

With a faint grunt, Marcus dragged a metal chair across the linoleum and sat down, tossing the folder onto the small bedside rolling tray.

"What’s the medic’s verdict?" Marcus asked.

"Stitches are clean, nothing cracked, and I’m banned from doing anything stupid until the bruising fades."

"At least someone in this building has sense," Marcus said. "You’re officially pulled from field rotation and physical sparring until the infirmary signs you back onto active status."

Kael nodded. "I wasn’t planning on arguing."

"Smart." Marcus rested his elbows on his knees, his gray eyes cooling into the focused, analytical look of a veteran instructor dissecting a bad raid. "Now that the eastern sector is fully locked down, I’ve gone over Robert Hale’s final incident log and the helmet-cam footage from the security barrier. You got those warehouse workers clear, you kept that guard from losing his throat, and you saved young Lucas when he tripped."

Kael lowered his gaze to his bandaged wrist. "And I broke protocol on an evacuation detail to engage three beasts solo."

"Breaking protocol isn’t what bothers me," Marcus said quietly. "Let me ask you something, Kael. If those three scavengers had broken through the fence and sprinted down an empty alley away from the civilians, would you have chased them?"

"No, sir."

"Once the third one went down, did you even think about heading deeper into the yard to look for more?"

"Not for a second."

"Then don’t lump yourself in with the glory-hounds," Marcus said firmly. "You stepped into the lane because four civilians and two teammates were about to get torn apart. Any instructor who faulted you for drawing steel in that spot doesn’t deserve his badge. The problem isn’t why you fought, Kael. The problem is how you fought."

Kael stayed silent, listening.

"Wanting to keep people alive doesn’t magically make you qualified to do it safely," Marcus continued, tapping the folder on the tray. "When that first beast charged, you planted your boots like a brawler and let two hundred pounds of bone slam straight into your guard. When the second one deflected off its chest plate, your footing was too narrow to recover before it opened your arm. If you had gone down with a severed artery out there, Robert Hale’s squad would have had to fight through a breached street just to drag your body out—putting six more hunters at risk."

The weight of that landed squarely in Kael’s chest. He had thought about his own survival, and he had thought about the civilians behind him, but he hadn’t thought about the tactical burden a downed rookie placed on the rest of the unit.

"I didn’t have a plan past stopping the charge," Kael admitted quietly. "Once they were in front of me, I was just reacting to whatever came next."

"At least you can see it now," Marcus said, leaning back in the metal chair. "Your raw physical output is an anomaly for an F-rank beginner—anyone with eyes can see that after yesterday and tonight. You have the strength to drive a short-blade through calcified bone, and your reflexes kicked in right when you were cornered. But your fundamentals are non-existent. Your footwork is flat, your guard drops when your stamina dips, and you treat your own body like a shield because you don’t know how to control distance."

Kael thought of the concrete loading ramp slamming into his spine, and the sickening crunch of the scavenger’s shoulder against his collarbone.

"So where do we go from here?" Kael asked.

"First, you go home and heal," Marcus said. "When you come back through my doors, I’m overhauling your curriculum from the ground up. Before you ever touch another gate perimeter, you’re going to drill defensive footwork, blade angles, guard retention, and threat assessment until you can do them in your sleep. And more importantly, I’m going to teach you how to disengage and retreat when a fight goes sour, instead of planting your heels and trading blood until one of you drops."

"I’ll be ready for it, sir."

"Don’t expect me to go easy on you just because you bagged three scavengers on your first night out."

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

"Good. Because I’d just double your laps."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Kael’s mouth.

Marcus stood up, picking the folder back up from the tray. "One last administrative note. Hale’s commendation is going into your permanent personnel file, and you’ll receive the standard hazard payout for the three confirmed kills once the salvage team clears the carcasses. However, your official rank stays at F. One night of crisis survival doesn’t bypass the licensing trials."

"That’s fine by me, sir. I’d rather earn the rank when I actually know what I’m doing."

Marcus gave a single, approving nod and turned toward the door.

"Instructor?" Kael called out, rising carefully from the edge of the bed.

Marcus paused with his hand on the doorframe, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Thank you," Kael said sincerely. "For keeping me on the outer line tonight, and for telling me straight what I did wrong."

Marcus studied him for a long beat, the harsh fluorescent light catching the gray in his cropped hair.

"You were given a line to hold, and nobody behind you died," Marcus said evenly. "You also got yourself chewed up because you’re green. Both of those things can be true at the same time, Kael. Keep the first part, fix the second."

"Yes, sir."

"Now get out of here. Your wife has probably worn a trench in your living room floor by now."

Ten minutes later, with his signed discharge papers tucked into his pocket and his left arm resting comfortably in a light support sling inside his unbuttoned jacket, Kael walked out through the Association’s side gates and pulled out his phone.

Three unread messages sat on his lock screen, all from Sera over the last fifteen minutes.

Sera: Your twenty minutes are up. Did the medic clear you? Sera: Kael, please text me when you’re walking out. Sera: Are you still in the tent?

Feeling a sharp pang of guilt for the ten minutes Marcus’s debrief had added, Kael hit the call button immediately as he walked toward the brightly lit transit platform down the block.

It didn’t even ring twice.

"Kael?"

"I’m walking up to the station platform right now," Kael said quickly. "I’m sorry it took an extra ten minutes—the medic was finishing the wrap, and Marcus stopped by to sign off on my medical leave."

Through the speaker, he heard the unmistakable sound of Sera letting out a long, shaky breath and sinking onto a chair.

"Thank God," she whispered. "Did they find anything else wrong when they checked you again?"

"Nothing new. Six stitches in the forearm, heavy bruising on the shoulder and ribs, and strict orders not to lift anything heavier than a coffee mug for a couple of days," Kael told her as the late-night transit train rumbled into view along the elevated tracks. "I’m stepping onto the car now. I’ll be at the door in twenty minutes."

"I’ll have the kettle on," she said softly. "Just get home safe."

During the quiet twenty-minute ride back to Crestview District, Kael sat alone near the rear doors of the nearly empty train car, watching his reflection ghost across the dark windowpane as the city lights blurred past outside.

Yesterday morning, he had been an unemployed father desperate enough to walk into a Hunter Association testing yard with nothing but a stubborn jaw and a newly awakened System. Tonight, he was coming home with stitches in his arm, monster blood scrubbed from his knuckles, and the sobering memory of just how fast a human body could break.

Strength had kept him from dying in that alley.

Discipline was what would keep him living long enough to watch Noah grow up.

Kael hadn’t even raised his right hand to knock when the apartment door swung open.

Sera stood framed in the warm golden light of the entryway, wearing an oversized cardigan over her jeans, her dark hair pulled back in a loose clip. For a second, she didn’t say a word—her eyes moving immediately from the tired lines around Kael’s eyes, down to the purple bruise peeking above the collar of his undershirt, and finally to the white compression bandage covering his left forearm from wrist to elbow.

"Kael," she breathed, her voice cracking on his name.

He offered her a quiet, crooked smile. "I’m home."

Sera stepped back to let him cross the threshold, shut the deadbolt firmly behind him, and pointed straight toward the living room sofa before he could even bend down to unlace his boots.