GRAY
The clinic reeks of desperation and disinfectant, that particular cocktail of smells that clings to places where people come to bargain with death. Marietta's morning heat already presses against the windows, making the ancient air conditioning unit wheeze and rattle like something dying in the walls. I sit in a cracked plastic chair that's held too many grieving souls, watching Samira fight for each breath while my phone vibrates against my thigh with updates from a revolution I can't bring myself to care about.
Dr. Kim moves around her patient with practiced efficiency, the kind that comes from learning medicine in places where supplies run out and prayers become treatment plans. Half-wolf, half-human, she exists in that liminal space between worlds—too other for pack structure, t
