Hospital, hospital, hospital… At least it was clean. Stark white walls, thin blue curtains, tile that didn’t squeak when you moved. Sakusa could appreciate that. He had appreciated that. About two hours ago. Before the pain meds wore off. Before reality caught up and slammed into him harder than the blocker that sent him crashing into the floor.

Now? He was tired of the quiet. Of the antiseptic sting in his nose. Of the way the IV tugged at his skin when he moved wrong. Of the pins and plates they mentioned like they were just part of the furniture now. And—maybe most of all—of the way you hadn’t said a single word since sitting down.

He shifted—winced. His arm was elevated and immobilized, but the throb still found its way in. A sharp, rhythmic reminder: you fell. You broke. You failed.

“I didn’t even hear it snap,” he mumbled, staring at the ceiling. “Just the landing. And then nothing.”