Chapter 7 - Awakening the TitanMidnight on Wednesday. The hospital was blanketed in an eerie, fluorescent-lit silence. Inside VIP Suite 402, the monitors continued their steady, rhythmic beep. But the man in the bed was no longer playing dead.
Dominic disconnected the oxygen nasal cannula, tossing it aside. He pulled the IV needles from his arms with sharp, practiced efficiency, ignoring the small beads of blood that welled up on his skin. His muscles screamed in protest—atrophy from five days of forced immobility combined with the lingering agony of shattered ribs.
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. The cold linoleum floor hit the soles of his feet like a shock of electricity. He gripped the metal IV pole to steady himself, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps as his torso protested every movement.
Pain is just information, he reminded himself, quoting the marine sergeant who had trained him decades ago. And information keeps you alive.
Slowly, step by agonizing step, he walked toward the bathroom mirror.
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When he looked at his reflection, he barely recognized himself. His face was bruised, a dark purple hematoma staining his jawline, his hair matted with sweat, and his body lean and carved with scars from the crash. But the eyes—those cold, unyielding hazel eyes—were sharper and more dangerous than they had ever been.
He picked up a hand towel, soaked it in cold water, and wiped the hospital grime from his face. Then, pulling a spare set of black scrubs from the nurses' utility cart left in the hallway outside, he dressed himself. He wasn't a patient anymore. He was a predator returning to his hunting ground.
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