The examination room is deathly still, the only sounds the muted noises of the medical equipment and the faint rustling of fabric as Dr. Abara sets to work. I brace myself, steeling my resolve against the anticipated onslaught of discomfort as she begins to carefully peel away the layers of bandages swaddling my torso.

A sharp hiss escapes me as the adhesive dressing tugs at the raw, inflamed flesh beneath, sending tendrils of fiery agony lancing across my ribcage. The doctor says a soft apology, eyelids narrowing in concentration as she continues her meticulous work.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the full extent of my injuries is laid bare - a tapestry of mottled bruises and angry lacerations crisscrossing the canvas of my skin. The deepest of the gashes, a vicious furrow trailing from just beneath my right breast all the way around to my lower back, has begun to knit itself closed once more. But the process is far from complete, the edges still inflamed and weeping a thin trickle of pus-tinged fluid.

Dr. Abara clucks her tongue, reaching out with a gloved hand to gently probe the wound's periphery. Fresh agony blossoms across my side at the feather-light touch, muscles clenching in reflexive protest as I grit my teeth against the onslaught.

"Easy now, Ms. Bloodhound," the doctor says, glancing towards my face with a hint of gentle concern. "I know it hurts, but try to stay still for me, alright? I need to get a good look at this to make sure there's no sign of infection setting in."

"Doesn't really hurt until people start putting fingers in it," I joke, trying not to whimper. I force myself to remain as motionless as possible, chest rising and falling in shallow, measured breaths as she continues her examination. The wound still throbs in time with my racing pulse, a dull, insistent ache that seems to reverberate through every inch of my being.

But it's nothing compared to the agony that blossoms anew as Dr. Abara shifts her focus lower, deft fingers probing at the ugly, puckered knot of scar tissue marring my left hip. This is where the shrapnel entered - well, some of the shrapnel, as if there's any differentiation between the various chunks - burying itself deep within the meat of my thigh before the paramedics were able to dig it out and stem the bleeding.

I can't quite stifle the gasp that tears itself from my throat as the doctor's treatments send fresh shockwaves of torment radiating through the injury. It feels as though someone has driven a white-hot poker directly into the wound, the pain intense and all-consuming.

"Breathe through it, Ms. Bloodhound," Dr. Abara says, her tone both gentle and insistent. "I know it hurts like hell, but you need to stay with me here, alright? Just focus on your breathing, nice and slow. We're gonna get these cleaned out and re-bandaged, and, knowing you, it'll be basically fine in a week or two."

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to comply, drawing in a deep, shuddering breath through my nose before exhaling it in a low, controlled hiss. The pain doesn't abate, not really, but the simple act of focusing on the steady rhythm of my own respiration seems to help ground me, providing a fragile tether to the present moment.

Dr. Abara continues her examination, deft fingers mapping the contours of the wound with a clinical detachment. I can feel the heat radiating from the inflamed flesh, the dull throbbing ache pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

"Well, the good news is that there doesn't appear to be any signs of infection setting in, which would be surprising for anyone else," the doctor says at length, straightening with a faint grimace. "But you're going to want to take it easy on this leg for the next few days, at least. No strenuous activity until that wound has had a chance to properly close and start healing, understood? Stick to non-intensive things, like more team meetings."

I manage a tight nod, sweat beading on my brow as another wave of agony washes over me. "Sure. Team meetings," I hiss. The pain is intense, almost overwhelming, but I force myself to remain still and silent, focusing on the steady cadence of my own breathing.

It's so much easier when I'm not paying attention to it. When it's a dull roar in the back of my head.

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Dr. Abara moves on, shifting her attention to the myriad of smaller cuts and abrasions peppering my arms and shoulders. These are less severe, more superficial - the legacy of metal and debris raking across my exposed skin in the heat of battle.

Still, each fresh prod and poke sends tendrils of fiery torment lancing through my nerves, the raw, inflamed flesh protesting the doctor's ministrations. I clench my teeth, riding out the waves of discomfort as best I can while Dr. Abara cleans and redresses each wound with a practiced, clinical efficiency.

By the time she finally steps back, I'm trembling with the exertion of it all, skin slick with a sheen of cold sweat. Every inch of my body throbs in time with my racing pulse, a dull, insistent ache that seems to bounce through my bones.

"Well, that's about the best I can do for now," Dr. Abara says, offering me a tight, reassuring smile as she strips off her gloves. "I'll get you set up with some fresh dressings and a course of antibiotics to help stave off any potential infections. But the rest is going to be up to you, Ms. Bloodhound. With what it says in your file, I have a feeling putting any more sutures in would be counterproductive. You have a tendency to reject and then spit them out."

I manage a faint nod, sucking in air through my nose and exhaling it from my mouth. "Right. Take it easy."

"That's right," she affirms. "Take it easy."

"Is therapy taking it easy?" I ask, half joking, half not. As I get my clothes back on, I can feel the pain once again fading into the background roar. Like I said earlier - when people aren't putting their fingers in it, it doesn't hurt nearly as bad. Almost ignorable.

She looks at me. "Is it?"

----------------------------------------

The room feels too small, too confining, the walls seeming to press in around me with every shallow exhalation. I shift in my seat, the cheap pleather creaking beneath me as I struggle to find a position that doesn't make me feel quite so exposed, so utterly vulnerable.

Across the desk, Dr. Desai regards me with that same implacable expression of gentle concern that all doctors wear, his face alight with a hint of something I can't quite put my finger on. Is it pity? Understanding? I'm not sure, and the uncertainty of it all only serves to set my teeth on edge.

"It's good to see you again, Samantha," he says, the familiar cadences of his rich baritone seeming to fill the stifling silence. "Although I must admit, I was hoping our next session might find you in... better circumstances than our last, shall we say."

I shrug, the motion tight and controlled as I fight to maintain a mask of nonchalant indifference. Inside, however, a roiling tempest of emotions churns, each one threatening to overwhelm me with its sheer, visceral intensity.

"Yeah, well..." I trail off, offering the doctor a tiny half-smile as my gaze drifts towards the far wall. "You know how it is, doc. The life of a superhero, and all that jazz. Pretty much just another day at the office for me."

The words emerge flippant, almost glib, but even as they tumble from my lips I can feel the fragility behind them, the hairline fractures threatening to splinter and shatter at the slightest provocation. Dr. Desai regards me for a long moment, eyes hiding a knowing light as he seems to drink in the subtleties of my body language.

"I see," he says at length, making a small notation on the pad before him. "Well, why don't we start with something simple then, hmm? Can you tell me how your days have been going lately? Outside of your extracurricular activities, that is."

Extracurriculars. Hmph.

The question seems innocuous enough on its surface, a gentle prompt designed to ease me into the rhythms of our session. But even as the words register, I can feel my throat constricting, every muscle in my body tensing as if bracing for an impact.

How have my days been going? The question sticks in me like a thrown knife. Memories rise, unbidden - the weight of Gale's confession hanging over the assembled Young Defenders like a shroud, the dawning realization that our relationship both as friends and girlfriends was well and truly over, followed by the hollow emptiness that had seemed to swallow me whole in the aftermath.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fingers clenching into tight fists as I fight to maintain my composure. My nails dig into the meat of my palms, the sharp sting of pain helping to ground me in the moment and stave off the encroaching tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm me.

"They've been... fine, I guess," I manage at last, the words emerging in a breathless rush as I force my eyes open once more. My gaze remains stubbornly averted, fixed on a point somewhere over Dr. Desai's left shoulder as I struggle to maintain my fragile mask of detachment. "School's out for the summer, so that's... that's one less thing to worry about, at least."

The doctor examines me momentarily, face pressed taut in gentle skepticism. "I see," he says, making another small notation. "And how about your relationships with your friends and family? Have there been any significant changes or developments on that front lately?"

The words seem to detonate against the inside of my skull, each syllable reverberating through my mind like the tolling of a funeral knell. I flinch almost imperceptibly, shoulders hunching inwards as a fresh wave of anguish washes over me.

Gale.