Majori's POV: That night, as usual, after the nurse pushed the cart into the room, the rubber wheels creaked softly against the vinyl floor and the air filled again with the scent of alcohol and iodine. They followed their routine precisely: checked my temperature and blood pressure, examined the IV line, changed the dressings on my wounds, inspected the stitches where my ribs had cracked, and then pressed two pills, a white one and a blue one into my hand along with a cup of lukewarm water.I tilted my head back, swallowed, and felt the water trickle down my dry throat. One of the nurses said, "Good girl," as if I were a child brave enough to drink bitter syrup. I gave her a polite smile. When the cart rolled out, the curtain was drawn and their footsteps faded down the corridor, I could once again hear the steady tick-tick of the monitor, patient and rhythmic like a clock that never lost its temper. Nights like this had repeated so often that I had memorized the order of every soun
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