The morning after the fight dawned gray and slow, the city outside muffled by a sea mist. In the quiet of the recovery room, Joon-ho forced his eyes open, senses sharpening by degrees. Dull ache pulsed in his shoulder and ribs, but it was the sharp sting across his cheek that reminded him where he was and what he'd survived. The scent of antiseptic hovered over everything.
He shifted upright, biting back a grunt, and looked around. There were flowers on the table—cheap, mismatched, but clearly a gift. A cluster of protein bars and an energy drink waited nearby. He smiled faintly. The girls had been here. Probably Ji-hye, from the messy scrawl on the "Get well soon, idiot!" note taped to the drink.
