The hospital entrance did not pause for her.
It never did.
Automatic doors slid open and shut in perfect rhythm, swallowing people whole and releasing them again, indifferent to who entered or why. Conversations overlapped. Shoes scuffed against tile. Someone laughed near the reception desk.
Life continued.
Misty stood just inside the threshold, the echo of the stairwell still ringing in her bones. Her legs trembled, not from pain alone but from the effort of remaining upright. The space felt too open, too bright, too full of witnesses.
This was where everyone passed through.
This was where nothing could be hidden.
Luna guided her forward with a hand at the back of her neck — not yanking yet, not dragging — just enough pressure to remind Misty who decided direction.
"Stand straight," Luna said pleasantly.
Misty tried.
The blanket slipped again, exposing more of her than she could bear. She reached to pull it closed, fingers clumsy with panic.
"Don't," Luna said sharply.
The word cut.
A doctor nearby pretended to review a chart, eyes flicking up just long enough to register Misty's posture, her exposed vulnerability. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
People had begun to recognize her.
It happened in stages — a double take, a slowed step, a whisper that spread like a stain.
"That's her."
"I saw that clip."
"Is that really—"
Phones appeared.
Not all at once. One here. One there. Casually raised, as if filming were an afterthought, not a choice.
Misty's breathing turned shallow.
She took a step back.
Luna's fingers slid into her hair.
This time, there was no pretense of guidance.
The grip wasn't violent — it didn't need to be. It was firm, possessive, unmistakable. Misty gasped as her scalp pulled tight, her head tilted back just enough that she couldn't look away from the faces gathering in front of her.
"Don't move," Luna said quietly, close to her ear. "You'll embarrass yourself."
A laugh rippled through the small crowd.
Someone whispered, "She looks worse in person."
Misty's throat closed.
Her hands shook uselessly at her sides. The floor felt unsteady, as if it might tilt and spill her out in front of everyone.
The receptionist glanced up, took in the scene, then looked back down at her screen.
Permission had already been granted.
Luna released Misty's hair slowly, deliberately, as if showing restraint were a kindness. Misty swayed, catching herself against the counter. Her palm left a faint smear where she touched it.
"Careful," Luna said loudly. "If you fall, people will think you're unstable."
A man near the doors snorted.
"Isn't she?"
Misty flinched.
Luna smiled at him — approving.
"She's been through a lot," Luna said, her voice carrying. "But she's learning to behave."
The word landed like a verdict.
A security guard shifted his weight nearby. He watched. He did not approach.
Misty tried to speak.
"I didn't—" she started.
Luna's hand snapped back into her hair.
Harder this time.
The sound Misty made was sharp, involuntary, ripped from her chest. Her head was forced upright, her gaze dragged forward, displayed.
"Stop," Luna hissed. "Explaining makes you look guilty."
The crowd leaned in.
Phones were no longer subtle.
Someone said, "Get a better angle."
Misty's face burned so fiercely she thought she might pass out. Tears spilled despite her efforts to hold them back. She hated that most of all — the way her body betrayed her when she needed control.
A doctor stepped closer, his tone bored. "Lower your voice," he told Misty. "You're disturbing the entrance."
"I—" Misty tried again.
"Enough," Luna interrupted. "You're not here to speak."
She turned to the doctor. "She's been emotional all day."
He nodded. "Understandable."
Understandable.
Misty felt something hollow out inside her.
Luna guided her a few steps farther into the entrance, placing her directly beneath the overhead lights. There was nowhere left to retreat. Glass behind her. People in front of her. Authority on all sides.
"This is important," Luna said softly, almost kindly. "You need to understand how this works."
She gestured casually to the people filming.
"They don't hate you," she continued. "Hate requires effort. This is easier."
Misty shook her head weakly.
"They're watching," Luna said. "Because watching costs them nothing."
A woman near the doors crossed her arms, eyes cold. "If she didn't want this," she muttered, "she should've behaved better."
The words hit harder than any grip.
Misty's knees buckled.
Luna caught her — not to help, but to keep her upright. Fingers dug into her arm, nails pressing through fabric.
"Stay standing," Luna ordered. "You're not finished."
The crowd had fully formed now — visitors pretending to wait, staff pretending to pass through. No one pretending not to see.
A child stared openly until his mother turned him away, face tight with disapproval — not of the scene, but of Misty.
"Disgusting," the woman muttered.
Misty's sob broke free.
It wasn't loud.
It was worse.
Luna leaned close again. "This is what happens," she whispered, "when people decide your name means something else."
Misty squeezed her eyes shut.
Inside her chest, something cracked completely — not pain, not fear — but the last belief that dignity could be recovered by endurance alone.
The doctor checked his watch. "We should move her."
Luna considered it, then nodded. "Tomorrow," she said. "She needs time to absorb the lesson."
She released Misty abruptly.
Without support, Misty sagged forward. Hands caught her — orderlies this time — lifting her with professional detachment.
As she was wheeled away, she saw it:
Not sympathy.
Not outrage.
Disappointment.
The crowd dispersed slowly, some still filming, others already bored, the moment consumed.
Luna walked beside the wheelchair, unhurried.
"Good," she said quietly. "You didn't fight."
Misty stared at the ceiling, tears sliding silently into her hair.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Because now she understood the truth that mattered more than any threat—
This wasn't about hurting her.
It was about teaching everyone else what she was.
And tomorrow, they would remember.