Until my fingers pruned and the ache in my body dulled into a low, constant throb that I could almost pretend wasn’t there.
But even then—the pain didn’t disappear.
It just... settled.
Becoming part of me.
Like everything else.
When I finally stepped out, I wrapped a thick white towel around myself, the fabric soft against skin that still felt raw and overexposed.
The laboratory was empty again.
On a clean side table, something had been left for me.
Fresh clothes.
Neatly arranged.
A full academy uniform—crisp white blouse, navy blazer, pleated skirt—still folded with precise care.
Underwear still sealed in its plastic packaging.
And beside it—a pair of soft black flats.
Not heels.
Not something that would force me to suffer more pain.
A small change.
But one that didn’t go unnoticed.
I stared at the clothes for a moment longer than necessary.
Then slowly—I dressed.
Each movement was careful.
Every time I lifted my arms, every time I bent or shifted my weight, a sharp protest of pain followed.
My knees burned. My ribs ached.
My skin pulled at every stretch.
But I didn’t stop.
Didn’t rush.
Didn’t let the pain win.
The new gauze was already covering most of my visible injuries.
My knees. My forearms.
One cheek. The side of my neck.
I looked... contained.
