The infirmary smelled like antiseptic—the universal, bureaucratic clean that erases history and invoices you for the privilege.
Nurse Luna gestured toward the examination table where I'd laid after Jack's assault, back when I was still just regular Peter Carter instead of the enhanced version building empires and acquisitions in the background.
'Feels like that happened years ago instead of days.' Time sure cooks its books.
"Take a seat, Peter," Nurse Luna said, pulling up my file on her computer. "I need to complete your follow-up examination from the incident earlier this week. How are you feeling? Any lingering pain, headaches, vision problems?"
I settled onto the examination table, noting how her professional demeanor created this interesting contrast with the chaos she'd caused in the classroom just by existing. "Feeling great, actually. Better than I have in years."
