Alex Pov
I hate hospitals.
The smell of antiseptic, the too-bright lights, the sound of machines humming and beeping.
It all made my skin crawl.
But here I was, over a week into my stay, still tethered to this sterile hellhole because the doctor insisted on keeping me “under observation.”
Apparently, I was healing well.
The bullet hadn’t caused any permanent damage, and the doctor said I was on track for a full recovery.
Great news, sure, but I still hated every second of being stuck here.
The scar on my stomach was a constant reminder of what had happened.
It ached sometimes, but it wasn’t unbearable.
The nurses seemed impressed with how quickly I was bouncing back, and changing my bandages each day like it was some kind of miracle.
Honestly, I didn’t care about impressing
