Discharge morning began with Nina placing every shirt I owned across the visitor chairs. My mother had packed six, though three belonged to a period when she expected me to become broad through administrative pressure. The remaining options ranged from harmless to actively tired around us both.
"We are not buying anything," Nina said, standing beside the bed while she compared two collars, "the assignment is proving your closet contains one decision."
"That sounds optimistic," I replied, checking the Style assessment before it could agree aloud.
"This black shirt fits your shoulders," she said, holding it against me after I gave permission, "but you normally button it until breathing becomes optional."
"Buttons represent commitment," I told her, receiving a look that removed the defense.
Nina paired the shirt with dark trousers I usually saved for presentations. She rolled one cuff to test the length, then made me explain which adjustment felt natural. The lesson focused on intention rather than turning me into someone who enjoyed shopping.
"Leave the top button open," she said, standing back after I changed inside the bathroom, "then push the sleeves once instead of hiding your hands."
"My wrists have lived privately," I replied, following the instruction before facing the narrow mirror.
The clothing still belonged to me, but the fit made my posture visible instead of swallowing it. I looked thinner after surgery, with bruising above the collar plus exhaustion beneath both eyes. Nothing about the change resembled transformation, which made the result easier to trust.
"What do you think?" Nina asked, leaning against the bathroom doorway without supplying the answer first.
"The shirt fits," I said, testing the shoulder seam as I turned, "and I look awake enough to sign documents."
"Do you like it?" she asked, moving the question away from utility.
I studied the open collar, the clean sleeves, plus the outline of a body I usually treated as transport. Being noticed still frightened me, though hiding now felt connected to every empty lunch table. I could choose visibility in smaller amounts than an accident video there.
"Yes," I admitted, smoothing the shirt once before lowering my hand, "I like looking as though I chose this."
Nina smiled without claiming credit, then handed me the comb from Olica's emergency bag. She showed me how little water my hair needed before leaving me with the mirror. I fixed it badly once, tried again, then found a version that stopped fighting my head.
[STYLE ACTION COMPLETE: CHOOSE FIT OVER HIDING]
[Style: 09 → 14]
[Life Points: 220 → 340]
The five-point change looked excessive until I remembered how low the baseline sat. My clothes had not become expensive, while my face remained exactly mine. The improvement came from making visible choices instead of accepting whatever covered me.
My parents called while Nina folded the last rejected shirt into the bag, their faces appearing together from an airport lounge several countries away. My mother immediately noticed the open collar before asking anything about my pain.
"That shirt fits properly," she said through the speaker, leaning closer until her forehead filled half the screen.
"It always fit," I replied, angling the phone so she could see the rolled sleeves, "I previously opposed its political program."
"Nina chose it," my father said, proving my parents had reviewed Olica's updates with investigative dedication.
"Kofi chose it after receiving professional criticism," Nina explained from beside the chair, keeping the credit where I could accept it.
My mother thanked her, then began offering money for whatever clothing I needed after discharge. I appreciated the instinct while recognizing how quickly family care became purchasing from a distance. The Style improvement would mean less if somebody replaced every choice with a delivery.
"I have enough clothes for now," I said, watching surprise cross both parents' faces, "I want to learn what fits before buying more."
"Send measurements when you are ready," my father replied, adapting faster than my mother could protest.
The call moved toward medication, transport, plus the temporary bathroom handle installed at home. I answered each question directly instead of allowing Nina to provide my status. She stepped toward the window, making privacy available without abandoning the room.
Before ending, my mother asked whether Nina planned to visit after I returned home. Silence expanded through the call while every person recognized the hidden question. I looked toward Nina but answered clearly before her expression could become supporting evidence.
"We have coffee planned," I said, keeping the agreement ordinary, "anything else will be decided later."
Nina nodded once from the window while my father changed subjects with unusual speed. My mother accepted the answer after a visible struggle, then reminded me to eat before medication. Their familiar faces disappeared, leaving the hospital room noticeably quieter around both of us.
"You corrected the girlfriend assumption again," Nina said, returning after I lowered the phone.
"I am developing a specialized field," I replied, setting the phone beside the discharge papers, "accuracy under maternal pressure."
"Useful discipline," she said, smoothing one sleeve without changing the fold I had chosen.
The conversation left me tired enough to admit the clothing exercise had cost energy. Nina moved the chair closer, then waited while I rested instead of treating Style points as physical recovery. Looking better did not make my healing body any less physically injured.
The call had changed the room by bringing my parents close without making them present. Nina understood the difference, then let me recover without filling the remaining silence.
"Fourteen," I said, stepping back into the room while Nina packed the rejected shirts.
"A historic rise," she replied, looking me over from the open collar toward the shoes Olica had cleaned, "you may enter public buildings."
"Orison State will issue a statement," I told her, sitting carefully as the short effort pulled at my ribs.
Nina noticed the change, lowering the bag before asking whether I needed help. I requested the pillow plus five minutes before the final walk today. She gave both without treating the clothes as proof that recovery had accelerated.
The System receipt remained beside my Life Point total, carrying a faint line beneath the reward. I focused on it while Nina checked the discharge folder nearby today. The letters sharpened into a location label unlike anything inside the existing interface.
[Reward origin verified: Earth — Tutorial Locale 441]
The line vanished before I could read it a second time, returning with different wording.
[Display error. Reward origin: Local.]
Tutorial Locale sounded less romantic than alarming, though no new tab opened when I pressed the line. I searched the System glossary, receiving no result for Earth, locale, or the number. The portal section did not exist anywhere visible through the next few seconds.
"Something changed," Nina said, recognizing my expression before I lowered the screen.
"It called Earth `Tutorial Locale 441`," I replied, giving the exact words rather than deciding what they meant, "then corrected itself."
"A tutorial for what?" she asked, placing the folder beside me as curiosity replaced teasing.
"Apparently shirts," I answered, reopening the reward history without finding the original line.
"That is a frightening educational system," Nina said, though she wrote the phrase inside her notebook, "tell me if it happens again."
I promised because hiding anomalies from the person who knew about the System would create avoidable distance. Nina added the time plus the reward that triggered it, approaching the error with journalistic patience. Nothing else appeared before Ava returned with a wheelchair before moving forward.
"Hospital policy requires the chair to the exit," Ava said, checking my clothing before she faced Nina, "walking practice resumes at home."
"I will not argue," I replied, making the nurse pause because experience had taught her otherwise.
Nina carried the clothing bag while Ava helped me into the chair. The movement tightened my side, requiring two breaths before my hands stopped gripping the armrests. Nina waited until I nodded before placing the discharge folder across my lap.
The ride toward the pharmacy exposed parts of the hospital I had missed while unconscious. Families waited beside elevators, staff moved around them, plus outside light filled the entrance ahead. Leaving should have felt entirely good, but every meter removed the protected reason Nina had stayed near me.
Inside the pharmacy queue, she answered a message from Olica confirming the car waited outside. Tomorrow contained no visiting hours, no nurses who recognized Nina, plus no bed that gave her a designated chair. Coffee existed next week, though a plan could be canceled more easily than a medical crisis.
"You went quiet," Nina said, locking her phone after she moved beside the wheelchair, "is the pain climbing?"
"Not much," I replied, refusing the easy medical answer before it replaced the real one, "I am worried this disappears outside."
"What disappears?" she asked, resting one hand on the wheelchair handle without pushing.
"The messages, your visits, plus whatever we are trying," I said, looking toward the glass doors rather than her face, "the hospital made me difficult to avoid."
Nina stepped around the chair until she stood inside my view, blocking the exit without touching me. Her visitor sticker remained inside the phone case she held nearby today. She allowed the fear to exist without denying how much circumstance had shaped our connection.
"The hospital gave us time," she said, keeping her voice low while the pharmacy called another number, "but I asked for coffee after it."
"Plans change," I replied, hearing the committee rebuild itself inside two words.
"Then we talk if it changes," Nina said, refusing to promise eternity because I was frightened, "you do not disappear first to make cancellation impossible."
The instruction struck the exact habit waiting beneath my concern that evening. I could protect myself by replying less, postponing coffee, or pretending recovery required solitude. Nina had already recognized the exit before I moved toward it quietly.
"I will not disappear," I said, making a promise about my own behavior rather than hers.
"Good," she replied, moving behind the chair when the pharmacy called my name, "because I finally fixed your contact photograph."
She showed me the replacement while Ava collected the medications for now. Nina had taken it after I dressed, catching the open collar plus my uncertain smile near the window. I looked alive, visible, and entirely unprepared for whatever waited outside there.
Olica stood beside her car beyond the hospital doors, ready to transport me toward an apartment built for solitude. Nina pushed the wheelchair through the exit after asking, then placed one hand briefly against my shoulder. The attention remained when the hospital stopped requiring it before moving forward.