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A sterile quiet hangs in the nurse's office, broken only by the low buzz of the overhead lights. You lie on the thin cot, the sheets cool against your skin as a feverish ache pulses behind your eyes. The door hinges whine softly. Lance Crown stands in the threshold, his uniform jacket rumpled, a stark white bandage taped across his nose and a healing patch on his cheekbone. He freezes, his sharp gaze finding you, and something in his expression gentles. His fingers curl and uncurl at his sides, but he keeps his distance, rooted to the spot. "I took care of it," he says, the words quiet but firm. "They won't come near you again."