The VIP room was quiet in that very specific hospital way, the kind of quiet that wasn't peaceful so much as aggressively supervised.
Machines beeped in soft, judgmental rhythms. Fluorescent lights were dimmed to a mercy setting. The air smelled like antiseptic with a faint undercurrent of lavender from a diffuser someone had clearly bought to make "trauma" feel more spa-adjacent.
Private wing. Fourth floor. The kind of room celebrities recovered in after "exhaustion" and politicians used for "routine procedures" that definitely didn't involve subpoenas.
I lay in the bed, propped at a medically precise angle designed to keep pressure off my chest, wrapped in enough bandages to qualify as a mummy with a very specific gunshot-themed aesthetic.
Which, technically, was accurate.
Five entry wounds.Five exit wounds.Ten holes total that a living human body was not supposed to contain and still file complaints.
Shoulder. Chest. Side. Thigh. Arm.
