The sterile fluorescent lights of the VIP recovery suite buzzed softly above the leather medical bed.
Jax opened his eyes, blinking against the sudden brightness as three corporate stylists fussed over his polished gold-plated pauldrons.
Outside the soundproof observation windows, dozens of injured civilian refugees crowded the lower concourse, waiting for basic medical dressings that never arrived.
A tall woman with a digital tablet stepped forward, gesturing sharply for two makeup assistants to adjust the lighting reflector screens.
"Look at the camera drone above your left shoulder, darling," the lead publicist instructed in a clipped, manicured voice.
"Give us that humble, stoic expression that made you a viral sensation on District News One."
Jax pushed the stylists' hands away, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed with a dark scowl.
"Where are my combat clothes?" the young archer demanded, his voice thick with frustration.
