The imperial hospital was too white for this kind of day.
Dean hated it on sight.
Which would have been a more useful emotional response if hatred had improved oxygen intake, stabilized fractures, or convinced his shoulder to stop throbbing like an independent political movement.
It did none of those things.
He was propped at an angle in an imperial recovery bed that had entirely too many articulated settings and at least four more sensors attached to him than dignity required. His ribs had been bound and stabilized. His throat carried dark bruising from Arion's hand. One side of his face had swollen enough that the physicians had stopped pretending not to wince when they looked at it. His split lip had been sealed. The inside of his cheek had not been as lucky, so every attempt at speech still carried the metallic sting of healing tissue and lingering blood.
His shoulder had been reset.
Dean had opinions about that.
Mostly violent ones.
