The hospital room felt different this time.
It was sterile, blindingly white, and it smelled of lies.
A heavy plaster cast anchored my leg to the bed, a dead weight against the crisp sheets.
Every shallow breath hitched against the cage of my three broken ribs.
Behind my eyes, a concussion throbbed a dull, rhythmic warning.
But the worst injury was the clarity.
It sliced through the haze of painkillers with brutal precision, refusing to let me sink back into oblivion.
I reached for the phone resting on the bedside table.
My fingers trembled, not just from weakness, but from resolve.
I dialed three numbers.
