A dull, metallic taste coated Taji’s tongue, accompanied by a faint ache. Ten years. Ten years that the bullet fragments lodged deep within him had finally decided to leave. The surgery had stretched late into the night. The doctor’s words, delivered with practiced neutrality, had boomed in Taji’s ears like thunder: "It’s almost over now." Almost. That single, insidious word pressed down on his chest, a familiar, suffocating weight. Without insurance, he’d lived with those jagged shards as if they were part of his own anatomy for a decade, enduring the dull throb of pain, the unshakeable unease.

Outside the hospital window, the late afternoon sun poured in, its harsh brilliance only deepening the gloom within him. The tightness of the bandages beneath the thin fabric of his surgical gown felt like the grip of his past, constricting him. He should have felt relief, a profound lightness at the prospect of finally being free of them. Instead, his heart was a churning vortex of conflicting emotions. Bryan. The name, a silent invocation, sent a sharp pang through his chest. Ten years ago, that day. Bryan had run. His friend had been shot, and Bryan had run. The memory, a shard of ice, had pierced Taji’s heart countless times since.

“Blu, are you okay?”