Hera POV
I clutch my leather jacket and throw it on my shoulders. The bandages tied on me earlier,already ripped and lying in the trash can.
The doctor’s voice drones on about “recovery time” and “infection risks,” his clipboard clutched like a shield. I cut him off mid-sentence, my voice sharp enough to slice through his protests. “Write the discharge papers. I’m leaving. Now.” I order. The look I throw at him is enough to tell him that I mean business.
He blinks, mouth opening to argue but stops eventually. He sighs in defeat. He knows I am not asking at this point but telling.
I don't need to keep laying in bed when my body feels okay. That's not who I am.
I am Hera, leader of the Killer Angels. Not some fragile patient who needs to be babysat and watched over every damn minute.
