The rink lights had barely dimmed when they pulled her off the ice. Applause still thundered somewhere above, distorted through concrete and steel, but it didn’t reach her face. Gabrielle Serenity sat on the edge of the medical bed, unmoving, the paper beneath her already torn and smeared. Her right ankle was swollen beyond denial, the joint misshapen, skin pulled tight and flushing deep purple. Blood streaked down from where the skate had bitten through, drying in uneven lines along her heel and the arch of her foot. Her hair hung loose down her back, long and black, heavy with sweat, strands sticking to her neck and collarbone. It had never been tied, never controlled, just left to fall the way it wanted, even during routines that shouldn’t have allowed it. A few strands clung to her cheeks now. Her eyes—cold gray, sharp even through pain—stared forward without focus. Her lips, full and pale, were pressed together hard enough to tremble. One hand was buried in the mattress, fingers curled so tightly her nails sliced skin. Blood pooled faintly in her palm. The other rested against her thigh, rigid. Every pulse of her heart sent pain ripping upward, violent and nauseating. Her shoulders shook once, barely noticeable, and then stilled. She refused the sound trying to claw its way out of her chest. Her coach stood too close, talking too much. He waved it off, said it was nothing, said she’d twisted worse, said she was built for this. He pointed at her ankle as if minimizing it could force the swelling down. The joint answered by bulging further, skin stretched thin and angry. The door opened. Dr. Harvey walked in like the room belonged to him. No knock. No hurry. White coat loose, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing scarred muscle and old damage layered over newer ones. His body looked used rather than trained. A knife scar cut into the side of his mouth, warping his smirk into something permanent and ugly. His eyes swept the room once, dismissing the coach immediately, then dropped to her ankle. He exhaled through his nose, amused. “Impressive,” he said. “You finally found a way to make yourself look fragile.” He stepped closer, boots loud against the floor, and crouched in front of her without permission. He didn’t touch her right away. Let it sit there, swollen and bleeding, like a display. Then his fingers closed around the joint and twisted. Something shifted wrong. Wet. Internal. Blood welled fresh. Her breath broke despite her effort, a sharp, silent gasp. Her head tipped forward a fraction, hair sliding over her shoulder, hiding part of her face. Her eyes burned, glossy now, lashes clumped with moisture she refused to let fall. Harvey watched it with interest. “Relax,” he said dryly. “You’re not dying. You’re just finally paying for being stupid on ice.” He rotated the ankle again, harder. The paper on the bed ripped further under her grip. Blood dripped from her palm onto the floor. Her jaw locked, muscle jumping, a faint tremor running through her leg that she couldn’t stop. “Ligament damage,” he continued, casual, already reaching for gloves. “Severe. Possible tear. You’ll hate rehab.” He glanced up at her face then, meeting her stare directly. “Which means you’ll try to skip it. Which means you’ll make it worse. Which means I’ll see you even more.” He snapped the gloves on, straightening slowly. “And for the record,” he added, voice flat and cutting, “world records don’t make bones heal faster. They just make the fall more embarrassing.” He turned toward the counter, already writing, leaving her sitting there with blood on her hands, hair falling loose around her shoulders, ankle screaming, and silence clenched tight between her teeth.