Blake Hart

The room was warm. Not just in temperature, but in color. Soft beige walls, cream shelves lined with closed containers and a small couch tucked into the corner like it had never seen panic or blood or bruises. It didn’t feel like a clinic. It felt like a retreat. Private. Safe.

Raiden and Billy had stepped out the moment we entered. No words or pressure, just a silent nod from Raiden, like he knew I needed air to breathe again.

And maybe… maybe he had known.

The woman doctor stood beside a long countertop, unwrapping tools with smooth, practiced hands. She hadn’t asked me anything. No name. No background. Just a polite glance over her shoulder and a gentle “Sit here, please.”

I sat on the edge of the low cushioned table. My fingers trembled in my lap, still aching with every pulse.

"I'm Dr. Teylan."

She pulled a stool beside me and set a folded towel under my wrist.

“Let’s take a look,” she said simply.

Her voice was calm. Soft but not overly sweet. The kind of tone that made you want to trust it. Or at least not flinch.

As she began examining my hand, carefully rotating it between her fingers, I found myself thinking something strange.

Did Raiden choose a female doctor on purpose?

He didn’t seem like someone who’d care about things like that. And yet… here she was. Quiet, steady, unintrusive. The kind of presence that wouldn’t scare a girl who just crawled her way out of a nightmare.

“Try to move your fingers,” she said gently.

I winced as I flexed them.

“Slowly,” she added. “Good. One more time.”

She watched intently, not commenting on the purple bruising, the raw skin or the swelling. She didn’t say 'what happened to you?' or 'who did this?' She just examined, like this was normal, like I wasn’t broken.

“Nothing’s fractured,” she said eventually. “But you’ve torn soft tissue in the joint. Ligaments are inflamed.”

She began to wrap my hand, her touch light and efficient.

“You’ll need anti-inflammatories for at least two weeks. And rest.”

I almost laughed at the word.

Rest.

I hadn’t even slept on a real bed in days.

Once she wrapped my hand, she turned slightly and reached for a small jar, then knelt in front of me to examine my ankle.

“This might sting,” she warned before gently pulling my leg forward.

I inhaled sharply, pressing my palms to the table behind me for balance. The pressure wasn’t unbearable but it was enough to make my vision blur for a moment.

“Ligament strain,” she said quietly, half to herself. “No breaks.”

When she finished taping it, she sat back on her stool. “You’ll walk, but it’ll hurt. Keep off it as much as you can.”

I nodded.

She looked at me for a second longer. Then calmly, without any change in tone, she asked, “Did they… violate you?”

My stomach turned.

Her gaze wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cold. It was just professional. Kind. Like she needed to ask, not for gossip but to know how to treat me.

“If they did,” she added softly, “I won’t tell anyone. It’s just for medical reasons. So I can help you.”

I hesitated.

The room was still.

“They didn’t,” I said finally, my voice rough. “They tried. One of them… kissed me. Tried to touch me. But that’s all. Some slaps. Nothing more.”

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t say 'I’m sorry.' Instead, she turned and opened a small container. “For your lips,” she said, handing me a pale cream. “It’ll help with the cracks and cuts.”

She passed me another tube. “This one’s for your face. You’ll bruise worse before you get better.”

I nodded, still not trusting my voice.

She finished packing up then handed me a bottle of pills. “Twice a day. With food.”

I stared at the label without really reading it.

“You’re lucky,” she said quietly, more to herself than to me. “But you already know that.”

I swallowed hard and looked down at my wrapped hand.

Lucky.

I wasn’t sure if that’s what I felt. But I was still breathing and for now… that would have to be enough.