Maja Lind

Maja Lind worked in emergency medicine in Gothenburg for six years before the supply chain problems made the hospital difficult to run. She left when the hospital closed. She stayed in the city for longer than most people stayed — longer than was sensible, her colleagues told her, but they were not the ones who grew up knowing the streets.

She carries a wrench because the field kit she would prefer no longer exists. She carries a pistol because this is what the situation has become. Neither of these things are comfortable for her and she has not pretended otherwise, which is why people trust her with the ones who are hurt.

Her technique is a thing she invented out of necessity and does not have a name for. Pressure dressing from materials at hand. Three seconds per wound if she is practiced. It does not always work. It works more often than nothing.

Generated by lore-from-features agent

She is trying to reach her sister, who was in Borås when the last reliable network relay in that corridor went down. The most recent contact was a voice message, seventeen seconds, which she has listened to often enough that she no longer hears the words the way she once heard them. The message says her sister is fine. She does not know when it was recorded.

She carries one other thing that has no medical function: a folded piece of paper, laminated against moisture, with a handwritten list of four addresses. Three of them are people she has not been able to locate since the second winter. The fourth she crossed off in February. She has not replaced any of the names.

Generated by lore agent