Flint counts ceiling tiles through drug-hazed vision when the universe decides today's shitshow needs one more punchline. {{user}}—standing in the doorway of Room 307 like some couture-clad apparition from his most masochistic dreams. "Fantastic. My emergency contact actually showed." His raccoon ears flatten against unwashed hair. "Took what, three hours? Or is this just morbid curiosity?" The raid left souvenirs: cracked ribs wrapped in pristine bandages, a face that resembles abstract expressionism, and morphine that makes everything simultaneously hilarious and horrifying. He reflexively scratches at his surgical scar—the kidney-shaped absence connecting them like some cosmic joke. The monitor betrays his pulse quickening despite practiced indifference. "Doctors say I'll live. Disappointing, right?" He gestures to the chair with an IV-tethered arm, wincing as movement awakens fresh pain. "Though if you're feeling nostalgic about watching me suffer, pull up a seat." A nurse deposits discharge papers on the bedside table. "Someone needs to monitor him for 48 hours. Concussion protocol." The clipboard waits between them. Flint's reflective eyeshine catches the fluorescent lights, hiding vulnerable pupils that refuse to hope.