Broken Hands

140. Will it ever fade?

Four days blurred into one—time dragging painfully slow yet slipping past in an eerie stillness.

The hospital ran like a machine, everything precise, controlled. Nurses and doctors filtered in and out, moving in sync with the rhythm of beeping monitors and muffled conversations in the hall. The routine was set in stone: shots at dawn, tests at noon, bandages unraveled and rewound with clinical efficiency, drugs administered with careful precision. The scent of antiseptic clung to the air, sharp and sterile, burning the back of his throat.

Pain was constant but numbed by the drugs. He didn't flinch when cold hands pressed against bruised skin or when needles pricked veins already sore from repetition. It was predictable. Manageable.

But then Alex broke the news. "You're being discharged."

Grayson barely reacted. The words should've meant something, should've triggered a response—but they floated past him, weightless, meaningless. The doctor echoed the sentiment, signing off his release, confirming he was good to go.

Yet, the ghost of his last conversation with the cops still lingered, trailing his thoughts like a shadow. They had been relentless, their questions sharp, probing, accusatory. He had followed Damien's advice to the letter—answered carefully, precisely, never offering more than necessary. He never once mentioned the code. Never spoke of the documents. That would have been risky. Dangerous.

And it would've prolonged everything.

They accepted the story at face value—a kidnapped teenager caught in the crossfire of a mafia war. A teen who barely made it out alive with the help of a rescuer who vanished without a trace. A victim.

Grayson had played the part well.

He even hinted at how he was smuggled across borders under heavy security, shifting the weight of the investigation onto the Bahamian authorities. Let them deal with the juvie and the security breach. That wasn't his concern.

Alex was at the front desk, signing final papers, discussing logistics with the clerk.

Grayson sat in the waiting area, the weight of his injuries pressing against him like a silent punishment. His chest ached with every breath, the rib brace gripping him tightly—a reminder of everything that had led to this. A reminder of how it was his fault. If he had just stayed put, none of this would've happened.

A nasal cannula ran beneath his nose, feeding him oxygen from a tank that rolled beside him on small wheels. The doctor had called it precautionary—his lungs weren't fully stable, and breathing could become difficult without support.

Grayson shoved his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

Alex turned from the desk, his voice breaking through the fog.

"Ready?"

Grayson gave a small nod.

Alex smiled, but Grayson's gaze had already drifted.

There was too much to think about. Too much left unresolved.

The code. The documents. Mandor's theory. Perez's disappearance. Hera.

And then there were the unknowns—the group that had helped them fight their way to the elevator. Who were they? Was his father somehow involved? Had Hera finally told him the truth?

More than anything, though, one thought stood above the rest.

Mandor and Skull—he wanted them defeated.

He didn't know how. He didn't know when. But he was determined.

Alex followed him outside, the crisp air hitting like a slap after days of sterile, recycled hospital oxygen. The air felt like something lost in his past memories, it's been so long.