Once I finished eating, I left Drakon to his morning reports and navigated the compound's subterranean corridors to the medical wing. The air down here smelled sharply of antiseptic and rubbing alcohol, a stark contrast to the savory mess hall above.
Doctor Vance was already waiting in his office, setting a fresh pair of medical shears onto a stainless steel tray. He had an unbothered demeanor of someone who had stitched up a thousand gang-related bullet wounds without ever asking questions.
"Kira," Vance greeted, gesturing toward the examination table covered in crinkly paper. "Have a seat. Let's see how that wrist is coming along."
He glanced at my bare hand, noticing the distinct lack of a support brace. "No wrap?"
I offered a faint shrug, hopping up onto the edge of the table. "I t
