Page 49 of Damsel in Disguise

It couldn’t be… I inhale sharply and push myself up too fast.

Pain lances through my shoulder. I gasp, clutching at it instinctively, only to freeze.

It doesn’t feel broken. It feels… healed? Healed but stiff and weak, like I haven’t used it in weeks. Weeks?

My gaze drops to my hands. The scrapes that should’ve been raw and furious are faded into pale pink ghosts. The scars are healing and scarring.

I quickly shove the blanket off me and push up the hospital gown I’m wearing to check my legs. The bruises along my thigh are barely dark shadows.

Even the split on my lip is nothing more than a faint tenderness when I press it with my tongue. It’s not only that but… What the fuck?

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, slowly testing my limit. No dizziness.

No fresh stitches.

No sharp agony.

Just the dull, unfamiliar sensation of muscles re-learning themselves.

The room around me is too curated to be random. The furniture is minimalist but expensive. The curtains are automated and down.

There’s a floor-length mirror across the bed. I stand carefully and walk toward it, every step cautious, like I don’t trust gravity anymore.

I look normal. Better than normal.

My hair is clean and brushed off my forehead. My skin isn’t gaunt or dehydrated. Whoever kept me here didn’t just patch me up—they maintained me really well.

How long have I been out?

A week wouldn’t heal road rash like that. As far as I can remember, the hit was too severe to heal soon.

So two weeks wouldn’t either.

A month? The thought makes my stomach drop.

Asher. Mom. Dad… Oh my God. They’d tear the whole world apart.

CynoTech has private security divisions stronger than some governments. If I disappeared for even twenty-four hours, there would be searches. Press suppression. Internal investigations. I panic internally.

My pulse starts to race for an entirely different reason now when my eyes fall on the minimalist bedside tables. My backpack and phone lie on one of them, while the other has a glass and a jar full of water.

Suddenly, my throat is bone dry at the sight of water. I walk over to it first and inspect the jar. The water seems fresh, as if they’d been waiting for me to wake up every day, and so does the glass.

It doesn’t have any smell of drugs or chemicals, so in the name of the Almighty, I gulp it down, believing in my core that nothing will happen from drinking this liquid.

I pour myself another glass, feeling a slight pain in my shoulders from raising the jar.

Then, as I’m about to pour another glass of water, I undo the lid and start drinking directly from it.

A long burp proves I’ve successfully quenched my thirst. I’m both embarrassed and disgusted by the sound.

Next, I’m reaching for my phone and stare at the date. I try to make sense of it. What the fucking FUCK? This can’t be true.

This is borderline insane. I’ve been out for over a month, and not a single one freaked out about my sudden disappearance.

Unless there was no disappearance.

Unless someone told them something believable.