[DECLAN'S POV]The tape on my arm pulls when I move. Each step makes it worse: adhesive ripping at skin, the burn crawling up my vein like a lit fuse. By the time I reach the corner of Bridge Street, I'm hissing through my teeth. "Ah—fuck..."I press my palm flat over the spot. The IV's gone, but the skin's still angry, bruised purple, tender as a fresh wound. My body feels like I'm wearing someone else's meat.The hospital gown flaps open at the back. Wind knifes straight against my spine. I grab the sides, hold it closed, and walk faster.I shouldn't have left.That's what they'll say. What anyone sane would say.But lying there under those lights, listening to nurses whisper, hearing boots in the hallway that moved wrong too heavy, too measured, too much like men with guns—No.I wasn't fucking staying.My side pulls again. The bandage across my stomach is tight, wrapped thick, but not enough. I feel dampness underneath, not fresh blood, not like before, but not clean either.Half
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