The corridors were quiet this early. Morning light poured through tall windows, turning marble into gold. Palace staff moved through their routines. Guards stood at their posts. Everything normal. Everything fine.
Nobody looked at me and saw blood.
The medical wing was in the east section, all sterile white and the smell of antiseptic. I'd been coming here since I was a child. Knew every room. Every cabinet. Every place to hide when the world got too loud.
Dr. Amir D'Souza stood by the windows when I entered, reading something on his tablet. He looked up as the door closed, and I watched his expression shift. Professional concern bleeding through the calm.
“You're early,” he said. His voice was smooth. Low. The kind that could talk someone down from a ledge. “Or guilty.”
“Neither.” I perched on the exam table, trying not to favor my ribs. “Just restless.”
He set down the tablet and crossed to me, moving with that lean grace he had. Runner's build. Precise movements. Everything about Amir was controlled, measured, the kind of steady that made you feel safe even when everything was falling apart.
He circled me slowly, amber-brown eyes tracking details I was trying to hide. The way I held my side. The stiffness in my left shoulder. The careful way I turned my head.
“Restless men don't bleed through linen,” he said quietly, gesturing to my shoulder.
I looked down. A small red bloom had seeped through the fabric. Barely visible. But he'd seen it.
Of course he had.
“It's nothing.”
“Sebastian.” He said my name like a reprimand. Like he was tired of my lies. “Shirt. Now.”
I hesitated. Not because I was modest. Because taking off the shirt meant he'd see everything. The bruises. The cuts. The evidence of exactly how not fine I was.
But refusing would make it worse.
I unbuttoned slowly, each movement careful. Pulled the fabric off my shoulders and let it fall.
Amir exhaled through his nose. Not surprise. Resignation. Like he'd been expecting this and hating being right.
“What did you do this time?”
“Slipped in the gardens.”
He laughed once. Humorless. Sharp. “And the gardens fought back? Multiple times? With fists and blades?”
He moved closer, fingers gentle as they traced the edges of bruises blooming across my ribs. I flinched despite myself.
“Tender?”
“A bit.”
“Anything sharp? Stabbing pain when you breathe?”
“Just ache.”
“That's something at least.” His hands moved to the bandage on my shoulder. “This is fresh. You did this yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Good packing. Clean edges.” He started peeling back the gauze, and I hissed when it pulled at clotting blood. “Sorry. This'll sting.”
The wound bloomed crimson beneath the gauze. Deeper than I'd thought. Angrier. The edges were clean but needed closing.
Amir was quiet for a long moment, studying it with that focused intensity he brought to everything. Then, “You can't keep doing this.”
