Sharp.
I tensed instinctively, gripping the sheets, my breath hitching as he worked, methodical and unflinching.
He didn’t slow down, didn’t flinch at the severity of the damage.
No skin remained in several places.
The flesh looked torn, raw, angry—like the damage had been done with intention and left without care.
He worked quickly to stabilize what he could: cleaning, applying antiseptic ointment, then layering sterile gauze over the wounds in thick, careful sections.
Every movement was precise.
Like he knew exactly how to handle pain without letting it interfere with his work.
When the bleeding had slowed, he reached into his bag again, pulling out a syringe.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain and inflammation,” he said calmly, his voice steady despite the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. “You’ll feel it within a minute or two.”
I barely had time to respond.
The needle pressed in.
A sharp pinch—
Then warmth spread almost immediately through my legs.
Soft. Dulling.
The edges of the pain began to fade, not gone—but no longer screaming at me with the same intensity.
He withdrew the syringe, disposed of it, and began packing his tools away with the same brisk efficiency.
Within moments, everything was zipped shut.
Order restored.
The doctor straightened, giving a small, respectful nod.
Before he could say anything else—
Vincenzo spoke.
“You may leave.”
His voice was quiet.
The doctor didn’t argue.
He simply gave a brief incline of his head and left the room without another word, closing the door softly behind him.
Silence fell again.
More suffocating.
Vincenzo moved.
Slowly.
