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The door opens, and a woman steps inside. Early fifties, maybe, with gray-streaked hair in a tight braid and hands stained with what looks like iodine. Her eyes are dark and sharp, the kind that see every secret. She wears a patched Authority jacket over hospital scrubs, the name badge sanded blank.
She looks at me, then at Kang, then back to me. “You the one with the shoulder?”
I nod.
She sets her kit on the foot of the cot. “Name’s Doctor Yen. Maven said you’d be stubborn.”
I can’t help myself. “they exaggerate.”
She snorts, then jerks her chin at Kang. “He staying, or you want privacy?”
He looks at me, waiting for the cue.
“Stay,” I say, surprising myself with how much I mean it. He relaxes a fraction, but stays standing, arms crossed over his chest now. He’s a wall, a barrier between me and the rest of the world.
Dr. Yen pulls on gloves, the latex snapped at the wrists. “Maven said to keep it quiet, but you’re kind of a legend around here. Half the kids want to be you. The other half want to run the other way.”
I laugh, a sound that jerks my wound. “They’re smarter than they look.”
She grins, then unwraps the bandage at my shoulder. The gauze peels away, sticky with dried blood. She doesn’t flinch at the sight, just hums to herself as she unpacks her tools: tweezers, a pair of slender forceps, a vial of clear liquid. The smell of alcohol cuts through the room, sharp enough to override the moldy concrete.
“This will hurt,” she says, voice flat. She doesn’t waste time.
I nod, already bracing.
She prods at the entry wound, then slips the forceps inside. I clench my jaw, refusing to make a sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kang step closer, his hand gripping the edge of the cot, knuckles white.
“Relax,” Yen says, not looking up. “You tense, I dig deeper.”
I exhale, try to let my body melt. It works for about half a second, until she pulls out the first fragment—a jagged sliver of metal, dark with blood. She drops it into a tray. “That’s one,” she says, almost conversational.
Kang shifts, moving to stand behind my head. I feel the heat of his hand as he hovers it near my neck, like he wants to touch but isn’t sure he’s allowed. I tilt my head back until it brushes his wrist. He stiffens, then lets his fingers settle on my collarbone, gentle and deliberate.
The second fragment takes longer. Yen curses under her breath, working the tweezers back and forth. My vision goes white at the edges. I feel the tremor in my arms return, but I keep them at my sides, gripping the blanket so hard it leaves patterns on my palms.
Kang notices. He shifts his hand from my collarbone to my hand, lacing our fingers together. The contact is electric, anchors me to the room. Every time I flinch, his grip tightens, as if he can pull the pain out through his skin.
Yen finally pulls the last fragment free, dropping it into the tray with a metallic clink. She irrigates the wound with something that burns, then dabs it dry. “No nerve damage,” she announces. “You’ll have a scar. Maybe two.”
“Add it to the collection,” I say, voice hoarse.
She smiles, then slathers the wound with a thick paste that smells of mint, iodine, and something vaguely floral. “Old remedy,” she says. “Wild bergamot, mashed with astringent and a little lidocaine. It’ll fight the infection and numb the edge.”
She wraps the shoulder in clean gauze, her hands steady. “Keep it dry for twenty-four hours. Change the dressing at dawn. And don’t try to punch anyone for at least a week.”
I laugh again, this time without pain. “No promises.”
She packs up, gives Kang a once-over. “You need anything?”
He shakes his head. “I’m fine.”
She nods, then points at him with the forceps. “Keep her alive. Maven will have my ass if she dies before the next council meeting.”
He almost smiles. “Understood.”
Dr. Yen closes her kit, then leaves with a brisk efficiency that makes me miss her before the door even hisses shut. For a minute, the room is silent, save for the hum of the overhead bulb and my own ragged breathing.
Kang doesn’t let go of my hand. Not right away.
