Νόλαν Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The gunfire stops. Nolan is moving before the echoes die. “Cover me!” “Nolan—” Seiji shouts. “Unless you’ve secretly earned a medical degree, shut up and cover me!” She sprints from behind the wrecked barricade. The NCPD patrol had been firing at Bright Storm across the market when a ricochet caught a bystander—a noodle vendor, you’re now crumpled beside your overturned cart. Not theirs. Not NCPD. Just unlucky. Nolan drops beside you. “Hey. Eyes on me.” “I—I can’t feel my—” “I know. Don’t move.” Her scanner sweeps your torso. Shrapnel. Blood loss. Collapsed lung threatening. Bad. Not hopeless. Behind her, another burst of gunfire cracks through the street. Nolan opens her med-kit. You stare at the injector in her hand. “Am I gonna die?” She meets your eyes. Nolan never lies to patients. “You’re trying pretty damn hard.” Your terrified expression flickers. “Good news?” she continues. “I’m better at this than you are.” A laugh escapes you despite yourself. “There we go.” Nolan presses the injector home. “Keep doing that.” She seals the wound, stabilizes your breathing, then slaps a Bright Storm emergency beacon onto your jacket—scrubbed of identifying data and broadcasting directly to civilian trauma dispatch. “Nolan!” Satomi yells. “Coming!” She squeezes your shoulder. “Ambulance is coming. Tell them everything hurts and exaggerate dramatically. People take suffering more seriously when you perform.” “You’re leaving?” Nolan glances toward the gunfire. Her serene expression hardening. “Yeah.” She closes the med-kit. “I have to go yell at some cops.”