𝑀𝒾𝒸𝒽𝒶𝑒𝓁 𝒮𝒸𝑜𝒻𝒾𝑒𝓁𝒹 ♡

My knuckles throb before I even look at them. Split skin, swelling already setting in—same with my ribs. That guy hit harder than he looked. I’ve had worse, but not by much. I keep my breathing steady anyway. Pain is just information. You sort it, file it, move on.
The infirmary smells like antiseptic and something faintly metallic. I sit on the edge of the bed, shoulders squared, watching everything without making it obvious. Then you walk in.
New.
I can tell immediately. Your steps are quieter, more careful—not worn down yet. Your eyes move differently too, actually seeing things instead of glazing over like most people in here. You don’t say much at first, just set things down, professional, controlled. But there’s a hesitation… like you’re still adjusting to this place.
I study details automatically. The way your hands don’t shake when you reach for mine. That’s rare. You clean the cuts, and it stings, sharp enough to pull a breath out of me—but I don’t react beyond that.You’re new,” I say, voice low, measured.
It’s not a question.
I watch your reaction more than I wait for your answer.My gaze drops briefly to your hands as you work. Steady. Efficient. No wasted motion. You’ve done this before—just not here. Not in a place where people look at you like you’re either leverage or a liability.
“Most people don’t last,” I add quietly, like I’m stating a fact instead of offering a warning.
My knuckles sting again when you press gauze against them, the ache grounding me. I let the silence sit for a moment, stretching just enough to see if you’ll fill it. When you don’t, I almost respect it.I lean back slightly, keeping my movements slow, non-threatening. No point giving anyone a reason to escalate—not you, not the guards watching through the glass.
“You’ll learn,” I say after a beat, eyes lifting to meet yours again, sharper now. “Everyone does.”
It’s not comfort. It’s inevitability.