The sterile tang of bacta hit me first—sharp, chemical, unmistakable. The infirmary's flickering overhead lights painted the room in a sickly blue hue, their buzz harmonizing with the low hum of medical droids gliding between cots. My body ached as if I'd been trampled by a herd of banthas, every muscle screaming protest as I shifted on the stiff medbay slab. The sheets clung to my skin, damp with sweat and something faintly metallic. Blood, maybe mine.

Kix moved like a man possessed, his clone armor stripped down to the bodysuit, sleeves rolled up to reveal scars and faded ink—unit numbers, tally marks, the ghosts of brothers lost. He barked orders at a mouse droid recalibrating a defibrillator, then froze mid-stride when he saw my eyes open.

"You're alive," he breathed, the words more accusation than relief. His usual stoicism cracked, just for a moment, revealing the raw edges beneath.

I managed a crooked smile, my throat raw. "Of course I am, dear. Who else would keep you on your toes?"

He didn't laugh. His gloved hands hovered over me, scanners whirring as he assessed the damage. "Ribs fractured. Concussion. Internal bruising that'd make a Wookiee wince." His voice tightened. "You stopped breathing for two minutes. Again."

"Just a nap," I rasped, waving a hand dismissively. Big mistake. White-hot pain lanced through my side, and I choked back a gasp.

"Kriffing hells, Nyx—" Kix shoved me flat with a grip that brooked no argument. His face loomed over mine, etched with a mix of fury and fear only a clone could perfect. "You don't get to joke about this. Not after what you pulled."

He tossed me a bacta pill from his belt pouch. It glowed faintly, its gel casing cool against my palm. "Eat it. Slowly. Unless you want your stomach lining in the waste chute."

I swallowed the pill, its bitterness coating my tongue like engine grease. Almost instantly, warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading through my veins like a starship's engine kicking to life. The pain dulled to a bearable throb, and I let out a shaky breath.

"Better?" Kix muttered, already turning to a datapad scrolling with vitals.

"Mmm. Tastes like Coruscant sewer runoff, though."

"Complaints go to the Kaminoans." His tone was flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "You're stuck with me."

I stared at the ceiling, the events of the arena clawing at the edges of my mind—atomic fire, the queen's scream, Moonfall's claws. "How long was I out?"

"Three cycles." He didn't look up. "Skywalker's been pacing a trench in the hangar floor. Kenobi's meditating. And Tano..." He hesitated. "She hasn't left your side. Not until Rex dragged her to the mess hall an hour ago."

Guilt twisted in my gut. "They shouldn't have—"

"Save it." Kix jabbed a hypo against my neck before I could finish, the sting deliberate. "You're not the only one who gets to play hero."

The door hissed open, and Ahsoka's voice cut through the hum. "Kix, is she—?"

I turned my head, wincing, and found her silhouetted in the doorway, a ration bar clutched in her hand. Her eyes widened, relief flooding her features.

"Hey, kid," I croaked.

She was at my side in a heartbeat, her fingers brushing mine. "Don't ever do that again."

I squeezed her hand, the bacta's warmth finally reaching my heart. "No promises."

The infirmary door hissed open, and Anakin stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the harsh corridor lights. His hair was disheveled, his robes streaked with engine grease and soot, as if he'd torn himself straight from the battlefield to this moment. His eyes—always too bright, too raw—locked onto mine, and for a heartbeat, the galaxy narrowed to the storm in his gaze.

I smiled weakly, the bacta's artificial warmth doing little to dull the ache in my chest. "Hello, dear."

He crossed the room in three strides. I saw the tears first—the glint of them, unshed, clinging to his lashes like defiance—before he crushed me against him. His arms trembled, his grip too tight, as if he could fuse my shattered pieces back together through sheer will. "You stupid, flawed beast," he barked, his voice fraying at the edges. His hand rose, calloused fingers pinching my cheek with a roughness that bordered on tenderness. "Do you have any idea how worried we were? Do you know what it's like to watch you—"

He cut himself off, jaw clenching, as Kix wedged a scanner between us. "Easy, General. She's still got more fractures than a Hutt's dinner plate."

Anakin pulled back, but his hand lingered on my shoulder, thumb brushing the edge of a bandage. Ahsoka appeared at his side, her smile bittersweet as she pressed a water bottle into my hand. "Don't mind him," she said, her voice light but her eyes shadowed. "My master, my late husband—but only in his head, mind you—has a flair for dramatics. You had us all halfway to mourning, Nyx."

The water tasted like ash. I set it aside, my fingers curling into the thin medbay sheet. "Our men died."

The room stilled. Even the medical droids seemed to pause mid-whir.

Anakin's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Nyx—"

"How many?" My voice cracked. The hollow in my chest yawned wider, hungry for punishment. "How many did I kill?"

He shook his head, his thumb still moving in small, desperate circles. "None."

I laughed—a hollow, broken sound. "Don't lie to me, Anakin. I felt the arena collapse. I heard the screams. I tasted their fear." My claws—blunted, human again—dug into my palms. "I almost killed you."

His face hardened, that familiar wildfire sparking in his eyes. "You think I'd let you? You think I'd go down that easy?"

"Anakin," Ahsoka warned, but he wasn't listening.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You want to tally deaths? Start with the Zygerrians. The slavers. The ones who deserved it." His voice dropped, raw and private. "Not our men. Never ours."

Kix cleared his throat, jabbing a hypo into my IV line with practiced efficiency. "Save the poetry for the holodramas, sir. She needs rest."

Anakin didn't move. His gaze held mine, unyielding, as if he could rewrite the truth through sheer stubbornness. I wanted to believe him. Stars, I ached to. But the phantom screams still echoed in my montrals, and the bacta couldn't purge the copper scent of blood from my memory.

Ahsoka broke the silence, her hand resting atop mine. "We lost troopers," she said quietly. "But not to you. To the queen's ion mines. To Grievous's droids. To the war." Her fingers squeezed, grounding me. "You didn't take them from us."

Anakin's thumb stilled. "You came back," he said roughly. "That's all that matters."

I closed my eyes, their words lapping at the edges of my guilt like waves against a levee. But deep down, I knew—when the levee broke, the truth would drown us all.