August 26, 2025 — MOA Complex, Medical Wing
The rain outside fell in slow, steady rhythms, tapping against the reinforced windows of the medical wing. It was just past midnight, and the corridors were quiet. Not silent—Overwatch never truly slept—but quieter than usual. The hum of overhead lights, the occasional rolling of a cart, the click of rubber soles against the floor.
Inside Room 4B, Thomas Estaris sat beside Rebecca, his right hand clenched tightly around hers. Her knuckles had gone pale. Her breathing came in short, deliberate bursts.
"You're doing great," he whispered.
She didn't answer with words, just squeezed his hand harder.
Dr. Ramos stood at the foot of the bed, calm and focused. "We're almost there, Rebecca. One more push. Just one."
A nurse to the side counted down softly.
Thomas had seen war. He'd seen people gutted, burned, reanimated. He'd seen impossible monsters and inhuman things. But nothing had ever made his heart pound like this.
