CHAPTER 130: Armament

CHAPTER 130: Armament

November 10th. Berlin was breathing in fits and starts: cordoned-off streets, cranes silhouetted against the sky, and workers laboring day and night among mountains of rubble. The city was trying to rebuild itself, and so was he.
The reconstruction was advancing with government support and foreign capital, but the devastation had forced many organizations to relocate. Among them, Enid Corp, which had set up a provisional headquarters in Munich, where medical and logistical infrastructure was more stable.

The door to the medical room at Enid Corp opened and Phoenix entered, leaning slightly on his good hand. The smell of antiseptic and white paper felt strangely calming. Across the desk, Dr. Armitage waited with a professional smile and bandages ready for removal.

"Phoenix," the doctor greeted. "Good to see you on your feet. You look better every day. Ready to have this taken off your face?"

Phoenix nodded with a brief gesture and let himself fall onto the examination table. Armitage worked with sure hands: he slid off the strips, carefully lifting the bandages protecting the X and his lower lip. The light revealed the new skin: pale, firm, well-healed scars. The X running from his eyebrow to his cheek was still there, marked, and his lip looked rejoined, slightly shorter due to the scar, but healed.

"Good," Armitage said, examining him. "They've closed very well. There will definitely be scars, but the skin is healthy. The line of the X will fade over the months and the lip… well, you'll have a notch that tells your story."

Phoenix looked at his reflection in the cabinet window and made a grimace. He didn't smile.

"Will it stay like this forever?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"It will, yes," the doctor admitted matter-of-factly. "With time and sun protection, it will diminish. I can recommend a topical treatment to help flatten the scar and improve pigmentation: a silicone gel, massages, and avoiding direct sun exposure. Also, I'll send an order for a follow-up with dermatology; we can consider cosmetic treatments in the future if you want, but for now the priority is stable skin."

The doctor handed him a sheet with instructions and pointed with his pen.

"I'm prescribing: an anti-inflammatory for mild pain (ibuprofen 400 mg, every eight hours if needed), a rescue analgesic if the pain becomes sharp (paracetamol 1 g), and a course of vitamin supplements to aid healing. If you notice intense redness, heat, or discharge, come back immediately; that would be a sign of infection and it needs treatment. Understood?"

Phoenix nodded. His voice sounded distant:
"Understood."

Armitage lowered his gaze and moved on to examining the arm that had been fractured weeks before. He palpated it gently, then asked him to bend his elbow, raise his hand, rotate his wrist. He observed his expression, the returning strength.

"We'll do a control X-ray," he said, "as per protocol. But by touch and mobility, it's perfect. The bone callus has consolidated well. Avoid lifting heavy weights for about six weeks and no strong direct contact until rehab authorizes it. I'm also going to refer you for physiotherapy sessions; they'll help with full mobility and grip strength."

Phoenix moved his hand again, slowly but deliberately.

"Will I recover everything?" he asked, with a mix of hope and caution.

"Most likely, yes," Armitage replied honestly. "With rehabilitation and care, you'll return to a function very close to normal. Maybe some minimal limitation, but nothing you can't work on."

The doctor took the file, typed on the computer, and stuck a couple of medical orders to it: prescription, physiotherapy, referral to dermatology. Then, like someone avoiding touching a sensitive wound, he changed his tone.

"A few days ago," he began and stopped, "...Miss Enid was here..."

He fell silent for a second, the sentence hanging.

"Nothing, forget it," he added quickly, with a grimace meant to be casual. "It doesn't matter. Don't worry about that now."

Phoenix tilted his head, gauging the reaction. He didn't want to pry.

"It's fine," he replied, downplaying it with his voice. "It doesn't matter."

Armitage closed the file and handed him the sheet with the prescription and instructions.

"Rest, eat well, do the physiotherapy, and protect the scars from the sun. And please: if there are nightmares or episodes that don't let you be, say so. There is psychological support and…" he paused, searching for the word, "...therapy for what you went through."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said finally.

"See you in a week for the control X-ray," Armitage concluded. "And Phoenix: take things easy. You've already done too much for now."

Phoenix got up with effort, the bandage reapplied carefully and the prescription in his pocket. As he left, he looked out the window at the Munich rain.
Hundreds of kilometers away, Berlin remained in ruins, rebuilding at a forced pace. But here, in this makeshift headquarters, the weight of the war was still palpable in the hallways.
Dr. Armitage's half-finished sentence hung in the air, something that didn't need an immediate answer.
Phoenix didn't give it any more importance and left, determined to continue—in his own way.

Hours later, in Phoenix's room at Enid Corp, he stood before the mirror. The rain continued to beat against the large windows, a constant sound accompanying his thoughts. He was adjusting his tie, with slow, meticulous movements, as if it were a ritual keeping him sane.

The reflection gave back a strange, almost foreign image.

The new scars crossed his face like impossible-to-erase memories: the crooked X from his eyebrow to his cheek, the notch on his lower lip. And his hair… different. He had asked for just a trim, but the barber had given him a fade on the sides. He had never worn a cut like this before.