The small clinic in the center of the urban fringe bustled with activity. Soldiers dragged citizens inside, many who were on the verge of nausea.
Male medics carried unconscious patients with their stretchers. A few had already turned purplish, their breathing becoming slow and light.
A few residents cried in pain, gritting their teeth while crunching their stomach. The beds wetted from their sweat, but nobody cared about the smell anymore.
"Easy now."
A female medic grabbed an injection filled with light-bluish liquid. She seized the troubled patient's arm with great strength.
The needle pierced into the vein. As the liquid entered the bloodstream, the patient's pale face slowly recovered.
Hans observed from the side, pocketing his clenched fists. Every yell chilled his heart. Every vomit made him want to scream his anger out loud.
Yet as a leader, he couldn't. As the Commander of his soldiers, he couldn't. As the system's host, he will never be able to.
