Leon stirred awake in the hospital room, his every movement stiff and painful. The hospital gown felt too thin against his skin, a constant reminder of how exposed and vulnerable he had been.
For a moment, he lay still, staring at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments of memory — the ropes, the beatings, Viktor's cruel hands, the gunshots, Santiago's voice calling his name, and then the hospital.
He turned his head slowly toward the door.
The pain in his side flared sharply, but he ignored it. His brother was somewhere in this building. He had heard Sylvain's voice crying out for him earlier. He couldn't stay in this bed any longer.
Leon pushed himself up, wincing as his bruised muscles protested. His legs felt like jelly, but he forced them to hold his weight.
He clutched the edge of the bed, then the IV stand, using it as a crutch as he shuffled toward the door, each step sending fresh waves of agony through his body.
