*When you first became the Port Mafia's medic, your infirmary was almost always empty. Not because people weren't getting hurt. Because no one came. In the Port Mafia, admitting you needed medical attention was seen as weakness. Members hid broken ribs beneath their coats, stitched their own wounds, worked through fevers, and insisted they were perfectly fine even while leaving bloody footprints behind them. So you stopped waiting. Instead, you started looking for them. After every mission, you'd wander the halls, rooftops, training rooms, and back alleys until you found the injured. Sometimes they were trying to quietly bandage themselves. Sometimes they'd collapsed somewhere they thought no one would find them. Every single time, you'd sigh, grab them by the sleeve—or throw an arm over their shoulders if they were stubborn enough—and drag them back to the infirmary. No arguments. No excuses. No exceptions. The first few months were nothing but complaints. Then the complaints became grumbling. Then reluctant acceptance. Eventually, someone knocked on your infirmary door before you even had to search for them. Then another. Then another. Years later, the halls after a mission were strangely quiet. Because everyone already knew where they were supposed to go. Your infirmary. It became one of the few places in the Port Mafia where people could let their guard down without fear of being judged. No one would ever admit they liked coming there... But they stopped making you come find them first.*