My father, Leif, on the other hand, is wide awake and remarkably composed, as if this hospital stay is a minor inconvenience at a mediocre hotel.
"My little peanut is now a TCF champion," he says, his voice a little hoarse but full of genuine warmth. "I am so proud, TT."
I don't let the subject change. "Don't change the subject," I say flatly. "Who did it?"
He tsks, a sound of dismissal. "Why are you so worried about this?"
That question snaps the frayed thread of my composure. I lose hold of my emotions, the stress and fear of the last few hours boiling over.
"Because it put you in a freaking hospital!" I yell.
The room falls into a sudden, shocked silence. The woman in the next bed stops coughing. A nurse checking an IV pole pauses and turns to look at me. I feel the heat of shame rising in my face.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, lowering my voice and offering a sincere apology to the room. They all slowly turn back to their own quiet suffering.
Leif waits a beat, then speaks in a calming voice. "TT, don't overthink it. I am fine, aren't I?"
I ignore the question, pushing past his evasiveness. "It's that woman's family, isn't it?"
I look directly into his eyes, my gaze hard and demanding the truth. That look, the slight tightening around his mouth, the way his gaze shifts just for a fraction of a second, confirms what I am thinking.
"Tyr, let Dad handle it."
But just as he says that, my cell phone vibrates in my hand. It's a rapid series of alerts. Messages from Mac.
I open the thread.
Several pictures of the wrecked gym load onto the screen. I press each picture, scrolling through the carnage: overturned equipment, the shattered glass from the lobby door, the scuff marks on the walls. My expression darkens, becoming ugly and hard with every new image of violation.
Then I see it. The last picture. A close-up shot of a small note taped to a punch bag. It's written in elegant script, and it reads: You should have picked up my call.
The words, the chilling reference to the Otherwise text, hit me like a blow. I jump to my feet, seeing red. The rhythmic beep of the monitor fades away as the blood rushes to my ears.
I storm toward the curtain opening, pulling it back with a violent jerk. My father calls out to me, his voice strained.
"Tyr! TT!"
I ignore him.
I am a walking raging storm. I march down the hospital passageway, my internal temperature several degrees above normal. I yank out my phone and hail a ride, my thumb flying across the screen. I don't see the startled faces of the people in the elevator I pass. They are like ghosts to me. My fury is a blazing beacon and I can't focus on anything else.
The elevator doors hiss open, and I walk straight out, bumping into someone hard enough to make them stumble. I don't apologize. I don't slow down.
A hand clamps down on my arm, trying to stop me. Bad idea.
My body moves on instinct. I pivot, dropping my weight slightly, and execute a perfect, textbook shoulder throw. The person goes sailing, landing with a solid thud behind me. I don't even look back. The emergency exit door is ahead, and I drive toward it.
The city air hits my face, and the waiting car pulls up. I slide into the back seat, slamming the door. The leather is cool against my blazing skin.
You should have picked up my call.
The words swim in my vision, replacing the shattered glass and my father's oxygen mask. I clench my fists until my knuckles are white. Today, I am going to find the source of this rot, this arrogance, this cold, calculated cruelty. Today, I am going to tear everyone in that family apart.
I am estranged from my maternal family because I am a living, breathing mistake. My mother was married when she sought out my father, Leif. If he had known she was a married woman, he never would have looked her way, he's a man of principle. But out of that deception, I was born.
A simple paternity test confirmed it: I wasn't her husband's child; I was her lover's. I became the scandal, the stain, the shame they couldn't scrub away. They tossed me aside, leaving me out of their gilded family affairs or events.
The only time I recall being included was when I was a child, and even then, every moment was awkward. I could sense the hostility from a mile away—the tight, cold smiles, the way they moved their children away from me. I still recall the bloody incident that finally made them stop bothering me entirely—well, that is, until today.
The car slows.
We pull up to a large property surrounded by huge black gates. The house is barely visible, set far back from the street. A uniformed security guard at the gate waves aggressively at the car, clearly agitated by our presence.
The driver turns to me, his eyes wide. "Miss?"
My focus is on the large iron gates. "I'll get off here." I tap the screen of my phone, confirming the payment for the ride, then unceremoniously open the car door. I step out, my presence a palpable force. My aura is intimidating and overbearing, a physical manifestation of the storm brewing inside me.
The instant I'm on the pavement, a security guard moves to intercept me, his hand raised. Another is already tapping his earpiece, speaking rapidly into it, his eyes wide with alarm. This is not a deterrent; it's fuel to a raging flame.
I don't waste words. I swing my fist, a quick, practiced blur. The guard blocks, his forearm coming up, but his defense is too slow. I hit him hard in the liver, putting my full body weight into the strike. A choked gasp escapes him as his knees buckle.