Three days after the violent clash at Oakhaven. Inside an underground clinic (a secret safehouse belonging to Ren's allies).
Beep... Beep... Beep...
The rhythmic, digital pulse of the heart monitor echoed steadily. Ringing in the suffocating silence like the countdown of a ticking bomb.
On a narrow medical bed, Ren lay completely motionless amidst a tangle of tubes and wires. His pale face was deathly pale, drained of all blood, and marred by heavy bruising.
A long surgical incision across his abdomen was bound in thick layers of gauze, blood still faintly seeping through the stark white fabric.
The sterile stench of rubbing alcohol and iodine hung heavily in the poorly ventilated air, doing little to mask the underlying, metallic tang of his own blood.
This underground clinic felt more like a morgue than a place of healing. Every shallow breath he drew felt as though shattered glass was violently scraping against the inside of his lungs.
