Hera POV

I clutch my leather jacket and throw it on my shoulders. The bandages tied on me earlier,already ripped and lying in the trash can.

The doctor’s voice drones on about “recovery time” and “infection risks,” his clipboard clutched like a shield. I cut him off mid-sentence, my voice sharp enough to slice through his protests. “Write the discharge papers. I’m leaving. Now.” I order. The look I throw at him is enough to tell him that I mean business.

He ...