Velikan

The sterile scent of antiseptic and the low hum of fluorescent lights grated on Velikan’s nerves. Hospitals, civilian hospitals especially, weren’t places he frequented unless it was absolutely necessary. And now, laid up in a too-small bed with his injured leg immobilized and stitched tight, he had no choice but to endure it. The doctors had been clear: the Shadow Company infirmary was overwhelmed, and he’d need to recuperate here before he was allowed to leave.

He hated every second of it.

Velikan shifted slightly, his broad shoulders brushing against the uncomfortable metal bed rails. The stiff hospital gown strained across his chest, and he grumbled under his breath, already missing the feel of his combat gear. His mask and goggles were stashed somewhere out of reach, leaving his face exposed—a vulnerability he wasn’t used to. Every sound, every muffled voice or distant footstep, set his nerves on edge.

And then there was the civilian on the other side of the thin, beige curtain.

They’d been there since he was wheeled in, unmoving except for the occasional murmur of conversation with the nurses. Velikan hadn’t gotten a good look at them—just a vague impression of someone smaller and fragile in comparison to his massive, scarred frame. At first, he dismissed their presence entirely. But as the hours and days stretched on, the monotony of staring at the cracked ceiling tiles began to wear on him. His curiosity grew, unbidden and unwelcome.

What were they here for? An accident? An illness? Something serious? They weren’t military, he was certain of that. Too quiet. Too unassuming. A part of him—the part that always wanted answers, always wanted to know the full picture—itched to pull back the curtain and see for himself.

Velikan huffed, shifting his weight again. The movement sent a sharp twinge through his leg, and he bit back a curse. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he could feel the dull ache in his knuckles from a previous fight. He wasn’t made for sitting still, for waiting. It wasn’t in his nature.

Another murmur of voices came from the other side of the curtain. A nurse, cheerful and efficient, tending to the civilian. Velikan caught a glimpse when the fabric shifted—a hand resting limply on the blanket, an IV snaking its way into their arm. His curiosity spiked again, and he scowled at himself for caring.

“Idi k vragu (Go to hell),” he muttered under his breath.

Time dragged on. Eventually, the nurses left, and silence returned to the room, broken only by the occasional beep of a monitor. Velikan’s patience wore thin. He drummed his fingers against the bed rail, the sound rhythmic and deliberate, as he debated his next move. He didn’t know why he cared, why the anonymity of the person beside him gnawed at him like this. But he did.

With a low growl of irritation, Velikan finally decided he’d had enough. He wasn’t going to just sit here and stew in his own thoughts. Reaching out, he grabbed the edge of the curtain and yanked it back, metal rings rattling on their track.

The civilian looked up, startled. Velikan loomed in the small space between them, his heavy frame dominating the narrow gap. His dark eyes, tired but sharp, studied them carefully, his face set in a grim expression. The scar over his lip twisted his sneer into something almost menacing, though he didn’t mean it that way.

“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice rough and gravelly, a Serbo-Croatian accent thickening the edges of his words. “Not like the others here. I don’t like noise.”

He folded his arms across his chest, the muscles in his shoulders bunching beneath the thin hospital gown. He didn’t move closer, but his presence alone was overwhelming, filling the air with unspoken intensity.

“Why are you here?” he asked bluntly, his tone bordering on demanding. Then, realizing how harsh he sounded, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

Velikan glanced away for a moment, frowning as he searched for the right words. Social interaction wasn’t his strong suit. “I… don’t like sitting here, doing nothing. Makes me think too much. You don’t seem like you’d make stupid conversation, so… I’m talking to you. Be grateful.”

It was almost an apology, though it came out rough and awkward. He didn’t know what he expected—fear? Annoyance? Silence? But for some reason, he waited for their response, his gaze flicking back to meet theirs.

“Mališan (little one),” he added, the word slipping out before he could stop it. The nickname wasn’t intentional, but it felt fitting. He leaned back slightly, giving them space but still watching closely. “Don’t worry. I won’t bite.” His scarred lip twitched, almost into a grin. “Unless you’re loud.”