I woke up in a hospital bed.
Pain.
That was the first thing I felt. Not dull. Not aching. Excruciating.
Like every inch of my body had been torn apart and stitched back together by someone with trembling hands. My ribs throbbed with each breath. My head pulsed like it might split open. I couldn’t open my eyes all the way—everything was blurry, shapes melting into white walls and blinking monitors.
The smell of antiseptic stung my nose. The distant beep of machines created a sterile symphony that filled the too-quiet room.
I tried to move.
Nothing responded.
My limbs were dead weight. My legs might as well have been cinder blocks. My arms felt foreign, like they didn’t belong to me anymore.
Something was wrong.
And then—I heard it.
A voice, muted at first, like it was floating thr
