The next morning, a sharp curse cut through the quiet hospital room.
"Fuck!"
Micah's voice cracked with both panic and despair, echoing against the tiled bathroom walls.
Darcy, who had been folding the blankets, startled. His hand froze mid-motion, and he rushed to the door, twisting the handle without hesitation. "What? Are you alright?" His voice filled with urgency.
Inside, Micah stood in front of the mirror, half-naked, his hospital shirt hanging open, his skin covered in black and blue bruises. He was leaning close to the glass, one trembling hand pressed against his cheek as though trying to erase that ugly patch on his face.
"Shit!" Micah gasped. His eyes darted frantically over his reflection, wide and bloodshot. "Why did it get so worse? My mum will really kill me this time!"
