The scent of antiseptic and blood is a familiar perfume in the Soma compound's medical wing, but tonight, it carries a sharper, more personal sting.
Nemu Kitagawa moves between cots, her hands steady as she changes a bandage on a young clansman's shoulder. The usual cheerful chatter of the ward is subdued, replaced by the low groans of the injured and the tense silence of waiting.
The doors to the wing burst open. Two men, supporting a third between them, stagger inside. The man in the middle is Tokito. His face is pale, his trademark easy smile absent, replaced by a grimace of pain.
His left arm is curled protectively against his chest, his jacket soaked dark with blood from a gash running from his elbow to his wrist.
Nemu's heart lurches into her throat, but her training takes over. "Over here! Now!" she barks, pointing to a vacant cot.
