Lieutenant Marc Willard was this close to freedom.

He had survived a physical exam that could’ve doubled as an emotional hazing ritual. Swabs in places where dreams go to die, needles, coughs, and cold stethoscopes. His boots were laced. His dignity—slightly patchworked but upright—was just about to hobble out the door.

Then came the voice.

“Oh. Oh dear.”

He froze, eyes narrowing. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned back toward Dr. Elisabeth Hartley, who was staring at her tablet with the kind of frown that never meant good news.

“What do you mean ‘oh dear’?” he asked, cautiously. “That’s not a phrase people say after a successful discharge.”

She looked up, delight sparkling just behind her ever-professional eyes.

“It appears,” she said, clicking her pen with exaggerated care, “that someone—you—missed your gamma globulin booster.”

His face dropped like a bad signal. “No. No, no, no. That’s the peanut butter shot, isn’t it?”

“Mm-hmm,” she said brightly, already opening a drawer. “Deep intramuscular injection. In the gluteus maximus. Extremely viscous. Burns like betrayal and regret.”

“Oh come on!” he groaned. “You already violated half my body today—now you want to stab the best part of me?”

She didn’t look up from the needle packaging. “It’s protocol. I’m just the messenger.”

“You’re the executioner, that’s what you are.”

Elisabeth pulled out the syringe. It was… large. Comically, cartoonishly, offensively large. The kind of needle that looked like it could double as a harpoon.

“Is that a needle or a plumbing fixture?” he asked, backing away one small step.

“It’s a standard 21-gauge,” she said sweetly. “Designed for deep muscle penetration.”

“Why does everything you say sound like a Bond villain monologue?”

She snapped on a fresh glove. “Pants down, Lieutenant. One cheek, if you please.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Only as much as the law allows.”

He grumbled his way back to the exam table, unfastening his trousers with all the enthusiasm of a man disarming a bomb. He glanced over his shoulder with theatrical suspicion.

“Do I at least get a countdown? A glass of wine? Dinner?”

“You get the knowledge that this will be over in about fifteen seconds.”

Beth pulled the liquid into the barrel of the syringe, giving it a satisfying snap as she flicked out a bubble. She admired her work for a moment.

“You know,” she said as he exposed one glute, “you do have a rather aesthetically pleasing backside. It’s a shame I have to stab it.”

He groaned into the pillow. “That’s the worst dirty talk I’ve ever heard.”

“Please,” she scoffed, cleaning the injection site with alcohol. “This is nothing. I once gave a gamma shot to a sergeant who passed out mid-injection and fell off the table. You’re doing great by comparison.”

“I hate this so much.”

She leaned close, centering her aim. “You’ll feel a sharp stick, followed by burning, intense muscle ache, and existential doubt.”

“Wait, burning? Why—”

Before he could finish the question, the needle went in.

“OH HELL! That’s not a needle! That’s a javelin!”

“Steady…” she said calmly, pushing the thick fluid into the muscle at a deliberately steady pace.

“OH—WHY does it feel like someone’s injecting molten lava into my ass!?”

“Because someone is injecting molten lava into your ass,” she replied with serene professionalism. “It’s how gamma globulin works. Inflammatory response. Very exciting stuff.”

He gripped the sides of the table like a man riding out a minor earthquake. “What is that, acid pudding?!”

“Almost done…”

“Liar! You’ve been saying that since you stabbed me!”

She kept her hand steady, counting down in her head as she finished the injection.

“...And we’re out,” she announced, withdrawing the needle like a sword from a stone. “You may now resume your whining.”

He slumped forward, half-naked and emotionally compromised.

“I think I saw my soul leave my body.”

She massaged the injection site briefly with a gauze pad. “That’s just the gamma globulin making friends with your sciatic nerve. Try not to sprint for the next few hours. Or sit on anything softer than concrete.”

He looked back over his shoulder, still horizontal. “You take pleasure in this, don’t you?”

“I take pleasure in a job well done,” she said, disposing of the syringe with flair. “And in watching you suffer just enough to be funny.”

He redressed with the slow, careful movements of a man who had survived a wild animal attack and wasn’t ruling out a lawsuit.

She handed him his completed chart.

“All done. You’re cleared for another year of chaos, destruction, and questionable nutrition.”

He accepted the tablet with a grumble. “Next year, I want a new doctor.”

“You say that every year,” she said, already typing notes. “And yet, here we are. Again. Me, the needle. You, the cheek.”

He paused at the tent flap, wincing as he shifted weight onto the wrong glute.

“One of these days,” he muttered, “I’m going to file a formal complaint with the Geneva Convention.”

“I already have a folder,” she said without looking up. “It’s titled ‘Men Who Cried at Vaccines’.”

He limped out, muttering a string of curses in four languages, but with the ghost of a smile threatening to appear.

Beth glanced up, watched him go, then shook her head once, just enough to dislodge a smirk.