The first thing Nathan registered was pain—white-hot, total, everywhere. Not sharp, not clean. It was the kind that pressed in from all sides, dense and suffocating, like his body had been dragged back from somewhere it hadn’t wanted to leave.

Sound came next. A low, rhythmic beeping. Too steady. Too mechanical.

His eyelids felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each. When he forced them open, the world swam—blurry lights, sterile white, the faint hum of machines. Nothing familiar. Definitely not the basement. Definitely not concrete or glass or blood-soaked floors.

His throat burned when he tried to breathe in properly. Dry. Raw. Like he’d swallowed sand.

Nathan shifted—and immediately regretted it. Every nerve screamed. His abdomen felt wrong, tight and hollow at the same time, like something had been rearranged without his permission. Tubes tugged somewhere near his arm. Something cold fed into his vein.

A hoarse sound tore out of him, half groan, half laugh, stripped of humor.

“What the fuck happened.”

The words scraped out of his throat, barely more than a rasp. Even hearing his own voice sounded foreign, thinner than it should’ve been.

He blinked hard, trying to force his vision to cooperate. Shapes sharpened just enough for him to register IV lines snaking into his arm, monitors flanking the bed, a glass wall beyond that hinted at a private suite—expensive.

His hand twitched. Reflex more than intention. Fingers curled, clumsy, and he tugged weakly at the IV, irritation flaring hotter than the pain. Control—he needed to reassert control—

Before he could pull again, movement rushed into his peripheral vision.

“{{user}}?”