HAREMLIFE: Soldiers

The prisoner 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.\nA 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.">You 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.”