Harold pressed harder on the bandage, feeling the warmth of her blood seep through the cloth and onto his palms.
The phantom gauze wasn't ideal—it never truly absorbed like the real thing—but it was what he had.
He gritted his teeth, leaned down, and muttered:
"Come on… hold together. Give me something to work with."
The blood flow slowed but didn't stop.
The wound was too deep.
He needed to close it, or she'd bleed out in minutes.
His hand flicked open the [Suturing Needle].
The tool shimmered into existence, cleaner than before, almost surgical in its curve, even if still misshapen.
Harold nearly wept with gratitude that he didnt need to use that rusty piece of $%^& he'd had previously.
"Alright," he whispered, trying to steady the tremor in his hands.
"Just like I practiced. In, out, tie off. Don't think about how alien her flesh is. Just sew, get the job done."
He slid the needle through the first edge of skin.
The texture was strange—not quite human, softer but with a faint resistance, like piercing thick kelp.
The thread tugged behind it, leaving a thin line that pulled the wound closed.
The woman twitched, a weak gasp escaping her lips.
One of her head-tentacles flared outward before falling limp again.
"Sorry… sorry," Harold murmured. "No anesthetic. Just hold on."
He worked as quickly as he dared.
Each pass of the needle earned him a system chime.
Ding. Suturing +0.1
Ding. Suturing +0.1
He ignored the messages.
His focus was absolute.
Left hand bracing her skin, right hand driving the curved needle through flesh.
Tie.
Knot.
Pull.
Again.
Again.
The wound closed by slow degrees, the oozing blood reduced to a seep.
By the time he knotted the last stitch, his shirt clung to his back with sweat and his eyes burned from staring so hard.
He sat back, chest heaving.
"Alright… bleeding controlled. For now."
Her body was a battlefield of trauma.
Bruises bloomed across her ribs and hips, purple-black against her luminous skin.
Some were shallow, but others spread wide and deep—signs of internal damage.
He couldn't fix that here.
Not yet.
But he could try to help the swelling.
He soaked strips of bandage in stream water, wrung them out, and laid them carefully across her torso and thighs. The cold compresses drew a hiss from her lips, but her breathing eased after a moment.
"Good… that's good," Harold muttered.
Then his eyes went to her leg.
The lower limb bent at a sickening angle, bone tenting the skin though it hadn't broken through.
Multiple fractures, maybe three along the shin, another higher up in the femur.
A fall?
A strike?
He didn't know.
But he did know how to splint.
He scrambled to summon up his poor excuse for splinting sticks provided by his skill, more like tongue depressors, but with enough of them he could form a larger splint, and once they were laid out.
Summoning up bandages in hand, he worked quickly, aligning her leg as best he could and binding the makeshift leg splints tight against her limb.
The work earned more system chimes.
Ding. Splinting +0.5
Ding. Bandaging +0.2
But Harold barely registered them.
His focus stayed on her shallow breaths, her faint pulse, the fragile thread of life that trembled under his hands.
When the last bandage was tied, he sat back, chest aching from the effort.
"That's the best I can do," he whispered.
His voice cracked with exhaustion, but his eyes shone with fierce determination.
For the first time since she had collapsed by the water, he allowed himself to really see her again.
The alien beauty of her features, the strange elegance of the tentacles that framed her head, the faint glow that shimmered along her skin like moonlight through deep water.
And then—
Her eyelids fluttered.
Harold froze.
Slowly, painfully, her eyes cracked open.
They were the color of the deep sea, vast and luminescent, with pupils that narrowed to vertical slits.
For one breathless moment, those eyes locked on him.
Fear flared there—raw, instinctive, primal.
The tentacles atop her head writhed weakly, fanning out in alarm.
Harold raised his hands quickly, palms open. "Easy. Don't be afraid. I'm helping you."
She made a weak sound in her throat, almost a hiss, almost a word.
Then her body sagged, her eyes rolling closed again.
Unconscious.
Harold sagged with her, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Damn it…"
He rubbed his face, feeling grime, sweat, and blood smear across his skin.
"I must look like a monster to you. But you'll see… you'll see I'm not."
He checked her pulse again. Still faint, but stronger than before. Her breathing had steadied too.
The system rewarded him again.
Ding.Skill Leveled Up: Splinting → Level 1.
Ding.Skill Leveled Up: Bandaging → Level 2.
Ding.Skill Leveled Up: Diagnosis → Level 2.
Harold blinked, staring at the glowing window that flared in his vision.
His single real patient had provided him with so much experience, so much in fact that he'd managed to level up three of his skills at the same time!
Since he still had to watch over her he quickly decided to check out what changed, but someone interesting happened when he tried to call up his system
Whooosh.
In a flash of light his body felt lighter, and looking down he could see why, his clothes that werent even his were gone, but he wasnt naked, instead he was wearing black scrubs, like the kind nurses wear while working.
The system recognized his effort. It was making him better.
But even more than the upgrades, it was the woman that mattered.
For the first time since arriving here, he had saved more than his own skin.
He had saved someone else.
Harold sat back on his heels, staring at the alien woman as she lay breathing, stitched, bound, and wrapped in crude compresses.
He felt the weight of his years pressing against him—the janitor, the orphan, the man who had never been allowed to hold a scalpel or save a life.
And yet, here he was, kneeling in a world of monsters, with an alien patient in his care.
No doctor in St. Mary's had ever looked more a physician than Harold did in that moment.
He whispered softly, almost like a prayer:
"You're going to live. I swear it."
The tentacles on her head twitched faintly, as though in response.
Harold leaned back, exhaustion dragging at his limbs.
He needed rest.
He needed strength.
But he couldn't afford to sleep—not yet.
Not with her life in his hands.
Not when she had opened her eyes, even for just one terrified heartbeat, and looked at him.
That look… it meant she was more than just another body.
She was someone.
And Harold had just become her doctor.