Rayne
Waking up felt like drowning in molasses.
Everything was thick. Slow. Heavy. Like my body was underwater and my brain was a full ten seconds behind every breath I took.
The first thing I noticed was the sound.
Beeping.
Soft. Steady. Mechanical.
The next thing was the pain.
Not sharp, not screaming—but everywhere. Deep, aching pressure that pulsed through my body like a warning siren. My skull throbbed as if a drumline had set up camp inside. My abdomen felt tight, bandaged, heavy. And my leg—when I shifted slightly—shot a bolt of pain so intense I almost passed out again.
I hissed, biting down a groan.
Machines were attached to me. I could see the IV in my arm, feel the leads taped to my chest. The sheets smelled like bleach and latex. Cold. Clean.
Hospital.
What the hell happened?
I tried to sit up, but my muscles screamed in protest. A sharp sting tore through my midsection. I looked down—thick white gauze wrapped around my lower abdomen, stained faintly pink at the edges. My
