The fluorescent lights of the infirmary were too bright, making everything look washed out and sterile, as if pain and bruises belonged to someone else. Joon-ho lay on the narrow exam bed, shirt off, a cold pack pressed to his swelling cheek. His right arm throbbed with every beat of his heart—angry, purple bruises rising beneath the skin, but thankfully nothing broken. The medics murmured in Spanish and English as they cleaned the cuts on his jaw, taped his ribs, and ran gloved fingers over his battered arm.
