Akira's POV
The recovery wing of the mid-city clinic was on the third floor of a converted administrative building. The corridors carried the low continuous hum of stabiliser fields and the sharp, clean scent of antiseptic layered over something fainter.
I signed in at the reception desk under my registration number, accepted the thin visitor badge, and followed the floor markers past the open bays where other recoverees sat with their own private silences.
Sena's room was at the far end. The door stood half-open, privacy screen drawn only partway, afternoon light cutting across the adjustable bed in a narrow rectangle. She was propped against the raised frame in a pale recovery shirt, left arm secured in a light immobilizer that ran from wrist to mid-bicep.
