Sleep did not come.
Since she left yesterday, leaving behind that humiliating pink ball and the echo of a disgusting question, eyes hadn't closed. All night, shadows on the wall transformed from gray to charcoal, then back to gray, marking the passage of time.
Waiting consumed the hours. Part of the mind hoped she wouldn't come—that she would complain, resulting in some other faceless "Linda" arriving in the morning, someone easily crushed by silence. Grim satisfaction accompanied that thought.
But another, smaller part waited for her. Waiting to see her walk in. Waiting to see if a single blow had broken her.
At nine o'clock sharp, the handle turned.
She walked in.
Today, yesterday's shock had vanished. Vulnerability was gone. Dressed in the same bright, peony-pink scrubs, hair in the same messy bun, her face had changed. It was impenetrable. Yesterday's smile was gone, which was, strangely, even worse. Now, this was pure, distilled work.
"Good morning, Mr. Wilde." Level and cold as a marble slab, her voice didn't wait for an answer. A metal cart rattled on the threshold as she wheeled it in.
"Stand up, please. We'll start by assessing your range of motion."
"I can't—"
"I didn't ask if you could." Cutting him off, she arranged shiny metal instruments and wooden blocks on a table. "I said, 'Stand up.' You can stand. Your chart indicates no damage to your legs. Or is your chart lying?"
Pure ice coated her tone. It hit like the slap she should have delivered yesterday.
War.
Understanding struck instantly. Yesterday was reconnaissance. Today, the war began.
Slowly, with a growl rising in the chest, blanket thrown off, legs swung onto the cold floor. Standing felt unsteady after days in the chair. Bandaged hands hung at the sides like useless weights.
"Excellent." A nod devoid of emotion. "Now, raise your right arm as high as you can."
Hell arrived in the form of the first hour.
Humiliation defined it. Simplest, most idiotic tasks became mountains. Raise an arm. Bend an elbow. Try to rotate a wrist. Pain, sharp and searing, shot from scars all the way to the shoulder with every attempt.
Clipboard in hand, she made notes. "Forty degrees of flexion. Pain threshold at thirty. Noted."
Then came the exercises. Dumping wooden blocks on the table, she set the stage for a toddler's game. "Pick up a block with your right hand and place it in this box."
Two cocoons of gauze and compression fabric stared back. Attempting to close fingers resulted in nothing. Tight, numb, alien sensations. Lowering the hand, he stared at the block as if it were an enemy.
"Try, Mr. Wilde."
Trying felt like idiocy. Fingers refused to obey. Poking at the block like a button moved nothing. Scooping it like a crab failed.
"Not like that." Merciless voice. "Use a pincer grip. Thumb and forefinger. Focus."
"I can't!" Snarling, the hand slid uselessly off the smooth wood again.
"You can't because you're angry." Not raising her voice, she diagnosed the problem. "Your rage is your enemy right now. It's blocking the signals from your brain. Calm down. Breathe. And try again."
Hatred for her burned.
Hatred for her calm. Hatred for her being right. Hatred for her pink scrubs, her clear voice, her damned wooden blocks. Hatred for forcing eyes to see what had become of the Golden Boy.
Breakfast arrived next. A nurse brought the tray, but Claire stopped her. "Leave it. This is part of the therapy."
Removing the lid revealed the meal. Oatmeal. Gray, lumpy. And a spoon. Not a normal spoon, but one with a thick, ridiculous foam handle.
"You need to eat by yourself."
Staring at that spoon brought a fresh wave of nausea. Thousand-dollar knives had been replaced by this ugly club.
Jamming the hand into the foam grip felt awkward. Scooping at the oatmeal resulted in half of it plopping back into the bowl. Bringing the spoon toward the mouth, hands shaking with strain, caused the oatmeal to fall onto the robe.
Hot, furious shame washed over him. Freezing, he stared at the gray lump on his chest.
"You've made a mess, Mr. Wilde." Flat observation. "Try again."
The spoon flew. Clattering against the wall, it fell to the floor. Oatmeal fanned out in a spray.
"I WILL NOT!" Roaring, voice cracking. "I AM NOT A CHILD! I AM NOT A CIRCUS MONKEY! GET OUT! GET OUT OF HERE!"
She looked at him. For a long, heavy second. Expectations of fear, anger, or tears hung in the air.
Calmly bending over, she picked up the spoon and tossed it onto the tray.
"Session is over," she said. "I'll be back tomorrow. Same time."
She left.
Solitude returned. Silence. Defeated. Broken. Humiliated by a bowl of oatmeal and a wooden block. Sitting in the chair, staring at the cooling gray stain on the robe, for the first time since the fire, rage wasn't the dominant emotion.
Despair was.
Night came like a predator.
Sleep claimed the body, exhausted by the day's humiliation. But sleep brought no relief. It brought memory.
First came the smell.
Not the antiseptic. No. This smell was known better than a name. Burnt sugar. Burning caramel. So strong it could almost be tasted—sweet, acrid, wrong.
Then came the sound. Not the quiet hospital hum, but a piercing, high-pitched hiss. Like a snake. The hiss of a gas canister, overheated and ready to blow.
Back in the kitchen of "Alchemy."
"CHEF! FIRE!"
Smoke, thick and black, billowed from the dry pantry. Panic filled the cooks' eyes. Flames licked the stainless steel.
And then the scream.
"LUKE! HELP ME! CHEF!"
Luke. The su-chef. Just a kid, only nineteen. Trapped in the pantry, grabbing truffle oil.
"BACK! EVERYONE BACK!" Roaring, voice lost in the fire's roar.
Grabbing a wet towel. Charging for the pantry. Heat like a wall. Kissing the face, the hands. Hissing growing louder.
Kicking the door open. Luke on the floor, coughing. Grabbing him by the collar of his chef's coat.
"CHEF! THE TANK!" Screaming, pointing to the hissing propane tank.
Throwing him out of the pantry into the hallway. "RUN!"
Turning to run after him.
And in that instant, the world exploded.
Waking up screaming.
Not in the kitchen. In the hospital room, but still on fire. Hands! God, the hands! Burning. Fire licking skin, melting it.
Choking. Tangled in sheets like a shroud. Nothing visible but flashes of flame. Reality and dream blurred. The pain remained real.
"HELP ME!" Rasping, alien voice. "IT'S BURNING! HELP ME!"
Thrashing in bed, trying to rip off sheets that felt like a burning chef's coat. Trapped. Alone. Dying.
Panic. Pure, animal, all-consuming panic.
Hand flying out, hitting something hard on the wall. The call button.
Slamming it. Not pressing, but punching with the entire fist, again and again, pouring all terror, all fear into the blow.
Silence.
And then—the click of the lock.
Bursting open, the door admitted a flood of harsh hallway light.
Blasting the eyes, the light burned away the remnants of the nightmare. It turned the figure in the doorway into a black silhouette.
It was her.
Claire.
No pink uniform. Simple gray t-shirt and sweatpants. Hair down, falling over shoulders. Not a therapist. Just... a person.
And her face, pale in the harsh light, was filled not with professional calm, but with pure, human terror.