The world was vast and filled with danger, or so Bandi had always heard. From their humble perch inside the First Aid Kit, they'd spent countless days dreaming of heroism. The elders—the grizzled disinfectant bottles and faded gauze pads—spun tales of daring rescues and narrow escapes. But Bandi? They'd never seen action. Not once. The closest they'd come to danger was being slightly unrolled by an overeager human hand before being placed back into the box.

Until today.

The kit shuddered as the cabinet door slammed open. "Emergency!" came a voice from above—a booming giant of a human child. The kit tilted, then lurched, as it was plucked from its resting place and plopped onto the bathroom counter. The lid flew open. Light poured in. And there they were: Bandi, front and center, trembling with excitement and fear.

"Looks like you're up, rookie," rasped Dr. Disinfecto from the corner, his pump nozzle clogged with age. "Try not to embarrass the rest of us."

"I—I won't!" Bandi stammered, trying to sound confident but betraying their nerves.

The giant's hands hovered above the kit, rummaging with reckless abandon. A box of cotton swabs tumbled to the floor with a mournful clatter. The tweezers rolled aside, grumbling something unintelligible. Finally, the hands found Bandi.

"Here we go!" the giant said, lifting Bandi into the air like a trophy.

"This is it," Bandi whispered, feeling the rush of wind as they were carried out of the bathroom. "My moment. My destiny. No more shelf duty for me!"

---

The Battlefield

The living room was a chaotic scene. A young human child sat cross-legged on the rug, sniffling and clutching their knee. A fresh scrape gleamed red against the skin, and Bandi couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. This was what they were made for. This was what they lived for.

"Let's patch you up," the giant said, peeling back Bandi's protective wrapper.

"Oh, wow, this is happening fast," Bandi muttered as they felt their adhesive backing exposed to the open air.

With a precision that only a semi-careful parent could manage, Bandi was pressed firmly over the scrape. The adhesive stuck snugly, sealing the wound from the outside world.

"Mission accomplished!" Bandi announced triumphantly. "Stickiness confirmed. Wound secured. I'm a hero!"

But their celebration was short-lived.

"Band-aid!" came a new voice, high-pitched and full of mischief. It was the child, staring down at Bandi with a gleam in their eye. Before Bandi could process what was happening, a tiny, sticky-fingered hand reached out and yanked them clean off.

"OW!" the child yelped, more out of surprise than pain.

Bandi gasped. "What are you doing?! I just got here!"

The child didn't respond. Instead, they turned Bandi over, inspecting their adhesive side with curiosity.

"Hey! Personal space!" Bandi protested. "I'm not a toy!"

But it was too late. The child's other hand came up—clutching a crayon—and began scribbling on Bandi's pristine surface.

"NOOO!" Bandi wailed. "Do you have any idea how long I worked to maintain this clean beige aesthetic?!"

The child giggled, seemingly unaware of the indignity they were causing. Bandi could only watch in horror as their adhesive became a canvas for crude drawings of stick figures and smiley faces.