El
A sharp, sterile smell hits her first.
Antiseptic.
Too clean.
Too bright.
El’s eyes flutter open, only to slam shut again as a harsh white light burns through her skull. Her head throbs. Her mouth is dry. Every breath feels like it scrapes her lungs.
There’s a steady beeping somewhere near her ear — slow, rhythmic, unfamiliar. Machines hum softly around her, a constant reminder she’s not in the forest anymore.
She forces her eyes open again.
The ceiling above her is smooth and white. Not stone. Not wood. Not sky.
A hospital.
Panic spikes through her chest.
She tries to sit up — and pain explodes down her leg, sharp and blinding. She gasps, collapsing back against the pillow, trembling.
Her leg is heavy. Wrapped. Immobilized.
Her throat tightens.
Where am I? Who found me?
