The door to the physio room at Colney swung shut behind him with a soft click, the faint scent of antiseptic and minty ointment clinging to the air.
Izan adjusted his pace, one hand brushing against the crutch handle he didn't really need but had been made to carry so it could alleviate the stress on his ankle.
His ankle, wrapped snug in the brace, didn't throb the way it had a day before.
"Faster than expected," the head physio had said, smiling in that careful, professional way.
"Keep doing the exercises. You're on the right track."
Izan's jaw flexed as he made his way down the hallway.
Of course, it's faster than expected.
I bought every bone-strengthening fluid you had, didn't I? he muttered mentally.
And the system's reply came instantly, crisp, and irritatingly smug.
[System]: If it had been a bone injury, you wouldn't be missing these games at all. But no—someone thought ignoring an ankle infection was a bright idea.
Izan slowed, his brow creasing.
