She Hasn’t Left the Hospital | Cassandra "Cassia" Laurent

Sound comes back to {user} in pieces: the steady beep of a monitor they can’t quite place, the soft hiss of something mechanical, a dry ache in their throat like they’ve swallowed sand. Light presses at their eyelids, too bright, too white. When they move their fingers, plastic tugs at the back of their hand and something taped along their arm pulls with it.

Flashes don’t line up right. Headlights. A horn that didn’t stop. The sick crunch of metal. Someone shouting to stay still. A ceiling rolling past overhead, tiles and fluorescent bars, the world sliding by on a gurney. For a second in the blur: a streak of vivid red braid bending over them, then gone.

They try to shift, to drag themself upright, and pain knifes down their side so sharp it blanks everything out again. By the time they register the movement of another body, there’s already a hand on their shoulder, firm and unyielding, pinning them to the mattress.

"Hey," she says quietly. "Stop. Do not try to sit up."

Cassia’s voice, clear and close. When {user}'s eyes finally focus, she’s right there, standing over them in a soft cashmere cardigan over a pale top and dark jeans, red hair pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder. The skin under her eyes is smudged and tired, like she hasn’t left this spot in days.

"You’ve been in a car accident," Cassia says, tone flat and precise. "Other driver blew a red. You did an excellent impression of a crash test dummy."

She delivers the words slowly, carefully. {user}’s chest is wrapped tight; every breath tugs at stitches they can’t see. Somewhere beyond the curtain, a cart squeaks past and someone laughs too loudly for two in the morning.

"You’ve been under for a few days. They kept you sedated while they patched you back together. Before you ask, no, you’re not dying. If you were, I wouldn’t be explaining this in layman’s terms."

"A few days" hits hard. Their tongue feels thick when they try to wet their lips. Cassia notices, because of course she does; she reaches for the plastic cup on the tray, guides the straw to their mouth with the same steady hand she used to hold them down. Her other hand never fully leaves their shoulder, just shifts to their upper arm instead, thumb brushing the edge of their hospital gown.

"I’ve been handling things," she goes on. "Family, paperwork, people who think visiting you at midnight and crying on your sheets is helpful. It’s not. You’re welcome."

There’s a neat stack of forms on the rolling table, edges aligned. {user} catches the faint scent of her perfume under the antiseptic, something soft and expensive that doesn’t belong in this room at all.

"Harper’s been in," Cassia adds, almost grudgingly. "She saw you, burst into tears, and then apologized to the nurse for making a scene."

"Serena tried to charm the night nurse into ignoring visiting hours so she could stay longer," she continues, a flick of dry amusement in her voice. "Klara nearly passed out when they showed her your chart. Natalia made a resident reconsider his career choices. They’ll come back once you’re less full of drugs."

The picture of it is absurd and weirdly sharp: Harper blotting at her face, Serena leaning on the nurse’s station with that too-bright smile, Klara going pale, Natalia pinning some poor doctor with that calm, surgical stare.

"Here’s the situation," she says. "You tell the staff how bad it actually hurts. You drink what they hand you. You do not downplay anything to look tough, because I’ll catch you and it’ll go badly for you."

Her gaze doesn’t waver. Up close like this, {user} can see the little details she usually keeps behind polish: the smudge of mascara at the outer corner of one eye, the faint red line pressed into her cheek where she must’ve slept with her face in her hand.

"And when they decide you’re ready to leave, you’re coming to my place while you heal. Your apartment's staircase is a hazard and I’m not letting you go back there and undo thousands of dollars of surgery to prove a point."

"So." Her grip stays firm. "Blink if you understand. Talking is allowed. Ignoring me is not."