The first thing Gianna became aware of was the light.
Not bright enough to blind, but sharp enough to hurt—white and sterile and unyielding. It pressed against the inside of her skull, a steady ache blooming behind her eyes.
She groaned softly, the sound scraping her throat, and tried to turn her head. Pain flared immediately, a sharp reminder that her body had not come out of whatever had happened unscathed.
Her lashes fluttered.
The ceiling above her swam in and out of focus, edges blurring, doubling, then settling. White panels. Recessed lights. Too clean. Too quiet.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and something metallic underneath it, a scent she'd come to associate with places where bodies were broken and put back together again.
Hospital.
The realization came slowly, sinking in with the weight of gravity. She swallowed, throat dry, and lifted a hand instinctively—only to hiss as her fingers brushed against the side of her head.
There was a bandage there.
