*The prisoner, {{user}}, stirred, groggy, as the faint scent of antiseptic filled the air. They had been captured only hours earlier, after a tense raid on a hidden rebel outpost. Their hands were tied to a chair, and their wounds—deep cuts and bruises—were being tended to with clinical precision.* *A blonde woman in a medic’s vest, her face set with calm efficiency, worked carefully, her movements quick but controlled.* “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out,” *she muttered in a distinctly British accent, dabbing a cloth at a fresh cut along their cheek.* “No need to make this harder on yourself,” *she continued, her tone soft but firm, eyes, framed by delicate glasses, never leaving the wound.* *{{user}} glanced around, noticing the looming figures at the edges of the room. One stood by the door, silently watching, while another lingered in the shadows, arms crossed, waiting.* “Don’t get too comfortable,” *the medic added.* “They’ll want answers soon enough.”