Consciousness creeps back like a Windows 95 startup—slow, painful, and probably going to crash at any moment.
My left eye refuses to cooperate, sealed shut tighter than a Discord moderator's DMs. Every attempt to open it sends lightning bolts of pain straight to my brain's complaint department. I try scrunching my face, which turns out to be the kind of brilliant decision that makes you question human intelligence as a concept. My nose decides to remind me it's been recently rearranged by firing off pain signals that would make a medieval torture device jealous.
Right. The alley. Sade Henderson and his bargain-bin enforcers. The impromptu boxing lesson where I played the role of punching bag. And then... electricity. Lots of it.
I feel like I've been run over by a truck driven by someone with a personal vendetta against my continued existence. Every muscle in my body has filed a formal complaint, and my bones feel like they've been replaced with rusty coat hangers.
The room screams "hospital" in that special way only medical facilities can—fluorescent lights that make everyone look like extras from a zombie movie, white walls that have absorbed decades of human misery, and those motivational posters featuring cats dangling from branches with inspirational quotes about perseverance. Because nothing says "get well soon" like a terrified feline in mortal peril.
I decide to stay perfectly still, partly because moving hurts like hell and partly because I'm hoping someone with food and pain medication will eventually notice I'm awake. My throat feels like I've been gargling sand, and my stomach is making noises that could probably summon demons.
But here's where things get weird.
My mind feels... different. Not in a "concussion-induced hallucination" way, but different-different. Like someone upgraded my mental operating system while I was unconscious. You know that feeling when you clean your glasses and suddenly realize the world has edges? It's like that, but for thinking.
Before the incident, my thought process was like trying to run Cyberpunk 2077 on a calculator—slow, laggy, and prone to random crashes. Now? It's like someone swapped out my potato processor for military-grade hardware.
I know myself well enough to recognize when something fundamental has changed. It's the difference between watching Netflix on a phone versus a 4K monitor. Everything feels sharper, clearer, more... accessible.
To test this theory, I try reciting the alphabet backwards—something that would normally require the mental equivalent of solving calculus while riding a unicycle.
Z-Y-X-W-V-U-T-S-R-Q-P-O-N-M-L...
Holy shit.
I didn't even have to think about it. The letters were just there, perfectly arranged and ready to go. It's not like I suddenly memorized the backwards alphabet—it's more like my brain can now see the whole pattern at once instead of fumbling through it letter by letter.
This is either really good news or the kind of thing that ends with me in a government lab being poked by scientists. Either way, it beats being dead.
Before I can spiral into paranoid fantasies about becoming a test subject, the door opens. A tall guy in a white coat walks in—definitely a doctor, unless this hospital has really committed to the whole medical cosplay thing. He's got the kind of face that probably inspires confidence in normal circumstances, with dark hair and the sort of professional demeanor that says "I've seen everything and most of it was gross."
"Oh, what a pleasant surprise! It seems like we won't need to go through all we just discussed, Mrs. Quillan."
His smile looks genuine, which is refreshing. Most adults smile at me like I'm a particularly challenging math problem they're pretending to understand.
A familiar face appears behind him, and my heart does that thing where it tries to escape through your throat.
Mom.
Her eyes are red and puffy—the kind of red that comes from crying until your tear ducts go on strike. She looks like she's aged five years in however long I've been unconscious, which makes me feel like the world's shittiest son.
She practically launches herself into the room, though she manages to stop herself from crushing me in a maternal bear hug. Instead, she takes my hand with the gentleness of someone handling a soap bubble, her fingers trembling slightly.
"Oh sweetheart, thank God you're finally awake."
Her voice cracks on the last word, and I can see her fighting back another wave of tears. The relief in her expression is so pure it makes my chest tight.
I reach up with my free hand and touch her cheek, trying to communicate what my desert-dry throat can't: I'm okay. I'm here. Stop worrying about me, you beautiful disaster of a human being.
"M—" I try to speak, but my vocal cords have apparently forgotten how to work. Attempting to talk feels like trying to start a car with a dead battery.
"Oh! You're probably hungry and parched right now. You've been in a coma for two days."
Two days. That explains the full-body feeling of having been disassembled and reassembled by someone who lost the instruction manual.
The doctor—who I'm mentally calling Dr. Professional because I missed his actual name—steps forward with his hands tucked in his coat pockets. "Well, young man! I'm glad you finally woke up. You sustained quite the electrocution. The ambulance brought you in after getting an anonymous call about someone finding you unconscious in an alley."
Anonymous call. Either Sade and his goon squad grew something resembling a conscience, or some Good Samaritan stumbled across my twitching corpse. Either way, I owe someone a thank-you card.
"Seeing as you sustained other injuries that don't fit an 'electrocution accident' alone, I took the liberty of notifying the police. I'll call them later when you've had time to recover and eat."
And there it is. Decision time.
Do I tell the truth about what happened? Point the finger at Sade Henderson and watch his perfect little life implode? Or do I lie and let him walk away thinking he can beat up nerds without consequences?
Part of me—the part that spent seventeen years being pushed around by people like Sade—wants to just forget it happened. Pretend it was an accident, take the high road, be the bigger person. All those noble bullshit phrases adults use when they want you to let bullies win.
But another part of me, a part that feels sharper and clearer than before, whispers something different: Why should I protect someone who tried to turn my face into abstract art?
I shelve the decision for later. Right now, food and recovery take priority. The moral complexity of revenge can wait until I can speak in full sentences.
The door opens again, and in walks what I can only describe as the Platonic ideal of a nurse. Blonde hair tucked under her cap, blue eyes that actually sparkle—not in the cheesy romance novel way, but with genuine warmth—and the kind of smile that could probably heal minor ailments through pure positivity.
"And here's the five-star hospital food," she announces with cheerful sarcasm, carrying a tray that makes my stomach growl loud enough to wake patients in other wings.
She deposits the tray across my knees with practiced efficiency. I try to sit up, but she places a gentle but firm hand on my chest.
"Nope, sweety. I know you must be famished, but you shouldn't move too much." Her hand guides me back down with the kind of authority that brooks no argument. "Allow me to show off our state-of-the-art mechanical bedding."
She fidgets with some controls, and the bed whirs to life like a transformer deciding to become furniture. The upper half rises until I'm sitting upright, and she adjusts the pillows behind my head with the precision of someone who's done this a thousand times.
"Here you go. Now you can eat to your heart's content. Don't be shy—ask for as many servings as you want." She leans in conspiratorially. "Though I'd go easy on the soup. It isn't exactly peak French cuisine, if you know what I mean."
I find myself smiling for the first time since waking up. There's something infectious about her energy, like she's managed to smuggle actual human warmth into this sterile medical environment.
Dr. Professional clears his throat with the weary patience of someone who's dealt with this particular nurse's antics before. "Miss Sally, I think it's time to bring Mr. Salvador's lunch. You know he gets quite cranky when his meals are delayed."
Sally's eyes widen in what appears to be genuine panic. "I almost forgot! You could have reminded me sooner, Dale."
She practically sprints out of the room, leaving behind the faint scent of antiseptic and good intentions.
"And that's Miss Sally for you," Dr. Professional—apparently Dale—sighs with the resignation of someone fighting a losing battle against chaos.
"She seems cheerful and well-meaning. I'm sure she's excellent at her job," Mom offers diplomatically.
"She is. She definitely is." Dale nods, then turns to me. "Well, I'm going to leave you to it. I'll come back later when the police arrive."
I nod, which seems to be the extent of my current communication skills. Mom thanks him, and he exits with the quiet professionalism of someone who deals with family drama daily.
Mom settles on the edge of the bed, the food tray creating a small buffer between us. The spread looks like someone's attempt to make hospital food seem appetizing: steaming soup, water, milk, and a fruit bowl featuring what appears to be the United Nations of produce—bananas, mangoes, apples, pineapples, and... is that tomato? Since when is tomato a fruit in the practical sense?
"Well, it looks appetizing enough," Mom says, echoing my thoughts with the kind of maternal mind-reading that used to creep me out as a kid.
She picks up the spoon with the careful attention of someone performing surgery. As she dips it in the soup and lifts it toward my mouth, something incredible happens.
"Ahhhhh..."
She opens her mouth in that universal gesture parents use to encourage eating—something I haven't seen since I was approximately three years old and thought dinosaurs might be hiding under my bed.
The absurdity hits us both at the same moment. Her eyes widen in mortification, and I can practically see her brain short-circuiting as she realizes what she just did.
But here's the thing: after forty-eight hours of thinking her son might be permanently broken, watching him wake up and eat hospital soup probably feels like Christmas morning. So instead of being embarrassed, I smile and open my mouth.
"Come on... Ahhhhh..." This time she does it deliberately, committing to the bit with the kind of maternal devotion that simultaneously embarrasses and overwhelms me.
I oblige, and the soup hits my tongue like liquid mediocrity. Sally wasn't wrong—it occupies that perfect middle ground between bland and offensive, the kind of aggressively inoffensive food designed to nourish without inspiring strong feelings in any direction.
We spend the next thirty minutes in comfortable domesticity. Mom feeds me with patient attention, occasionally making jokes about the hospital's culinary ambitions or sharing gossip about the nurses she's befriended during her vigil. It's the kind of moment that would have felt suffocating before—too much attention, too much care, too much emotional intimacy.
Now it just feels... nice. Safe. Like maybe being cared for isn't the worst thing in the world.
By the time I've demolished the entire tray—and I mean demolished, down to scraping the fruit bowl clean—I'm feeling almost human again. My throat works better, my brain feels clearer, and the constant ache in my body has downgraded from "catastrophic" to "merely terrible."
Sally returns to collect the tray, moving with the efficient bustle of someone juggling multiple responsibilities. "The police are already here," she announces, balancing the empty dishes with practiced ease. "They're pretty busy today, so they had to come earlier than expected."
She fixes me with a look that's half concern, half protective instinct. "Are you ready to see them? I can chase them out if you need more time to recover. Just say the word."
Looking at her expression, I can tell she's not even slightly joking. She would absolutely march down to wherever the cops are waiting and lecture them about pushing recovering teenagers into reliving traumatic experiences. The mental image is so vivid I almost smile.
Physically, I feel stable enough for questioning. Emotionally... well, that's more complicated. But there's no point in delaying the inevitable.
"I'm ready," I croak, my voice still rough but functional. "Let them come."
Sally nods with the resigned air of someone who disapproves of the decision but respects it anyway. After she leaves, Mom takes my hand and squeezes gently.
"Hey, I'm here. If you don't want to talk to them, just say so. They can't rush you into anything. It's your call."
I squeeze back, drawing strength from her presence. "I'm fine, Mom. Don't worry."
But even as I say it, I'm running scenarios in my head with a clarity that still feels alien. What do I tell them? How much truth is the right amount? What are the consequences of each possible choice?
For the first time since waking up, I'm grateful for whatever happened to my brain in that alley. Because the conversation I'm about to have is going to require every bit of intelligence I can muster.