Zayne’s POV
It had been exactly seven days since the surgery.
Seven days of being stitched back together by hands that didn’t understand me. Seven days of white walls, antiseptic air, and doctors who thought rest was something you could order like a prescription. My arm was healing—slowly, infuriatingly slowness—but my mind had never stopped moving. It paced, plotted, calculated. I was already ten steps ahead of everyone else in this building.
Except my body refused to catch up.
The doctor—Dr. Romano—had made himself very clear from the start.
“You leave this hospital early,” he’d said in heavily accented English, “you risk bleeding, infection, nerve damage. You stay one week. Non negotiabile.”
I’d argued. Of course I had.
I’d threatened to discharge myself, offered to sign whateve
