(Sanya's POV)
At the hospital, doctors rush Tyron into surgery.
I stand in the hallway watching them wheel him through the double doors, and the fluorescent lights overhead flicker as if they're unsure whether to illuminate this moment or leave it in darkness, and I can't decide which I'd prefer because part of me wants to see clearly while another part wants to hide from what just happened, from the fact that despite everything Tyron has done to me, despite the chains and the belt and the humiliation, I just watched a car hit him and send him flying through the air like a broken doll.
I wait outside.
The hallway is too bright, too sterile, too quiet except for the occasional beep of machines and the soft squeak of nurses' shoes on polished floors, and I find myself staring at a poster
