The first thing I felt was pressure. Heavy, constant, pressing against my chest like someone was sitting on me. Then the pain—white-hot and everywhere. My back burned, my shoulder throbbed, and my stomach felt like it had been stitched together with wire. Every breath was a punishment.
The smell hit next. Antiseptic. Blood. Smoke. The sterile hum of a generator somewhere nearby. Then came the muffled voices — low, urgent, familiar. Something cold pressed against my ribs, and pain flared bright enough to pull me the rest of the way out of unconsciousness.
I exhaled sharply. The ceiling above me swam into focus — rough beams, dim light, and the faint whir of medical instruments.
"He's awake," someone breathed.
A chorus of relieved sounds followed. The hands that had been working on me paused for only a moment before resuming, bandages tightening around my torso. My shoulder throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, and the smell of burnt flesh still clung to my skin.
