Consciousness returned to Davon Deshaun as a series of disjointed, painful sensations before it coalesced into coherent thought. First was the smell—antiseptic, sterile, and unmistakably hospital. Then came the sound—the steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor, a sound he’d heard in too many rooms for too many victims, never imagining himself as the source. Finally, the pain arrived, a deep, throbbing orchestra of agony conducted from every part of his body. A sharp, stabbing fire in his ribs with every shallow breath. A dull, persistent ache in his skull. A constellation of bruises and aches across his torso and limbs.
He tried to open his eyes, but one was swollen shut, the lid heavy and uncooperative. The other eye cracked open to a slit, revealing a blur of white ceiling tiles and th
