??? ?????? ????

                                        

                                              
chapter three
——
𐦟 OMNISCIENT 𐦟
           THE URGENT CARE LOBBY is quieter than usual, but Audrey still hears the soft beeping of a monitor from one of the nearby rooms, the rustle of scrubs, the low hum of conversation behind closed doors. It's been a long day, but she doesn't show it—her white coat is pristine, her locs pulled back neatly, and her expression remains the same calm mask she's worn since sunrise.
She checks the chart in her hand.
Patient: Biles, Santana.
Complaint: Hand laceration.
Cause: "Accident."
The air quotes might as well have been written in bold.
Audrey exhales through her nose and pushes the exam room door open.
Inside, Santana sits on the edge of the exam table, legs spread casually, one elbow resting on her thigh. She's tall, solid, commanding even when still. Her left hand is wrapped in a makeshift bandage—blood-stained gauze, messily taped. A faint bruise blooms along her jaw. She doesn't look up right away.
When she finally does, her eyes are unreadable and cold.
"You're not a doctor," she says flatly.
Audrey raises a brow. "No. I'm a Nurse Practitioner. Audrey Jackson." She closes the door behind her. "I'll be treating you today."
Santana gives a single, slow nod. Like she's accepting a deal she doesn't quite trust.
Audrey's used to it—especially with patients like this. She can still smell the fight clinging to Santana's skin. It's in the tension in her shoulders, the faint metallic tang of blood, the stiff way she holds herself like she's always ready to defend something.
"Let me take a look at your hand," Audrey says, rubbing in hand sanitizer and snapping on gloves.
She approaches carefully, gently cradling Santana's injured hand. The bandage is soaked through. Audrey peels it back with slow, deliberate fingers, revealing a long, shallow gash across the knuckles of Santana's right hand. It's clean, but deep—definitely looks like it came from someone's teeth or maybe a wall.
"How'd this happen?" Audrey asks, her voice neutral.
"Accident," Santana mutters.
"Right." Audrey doesn't push. "You'll need stitches. Four, maybe five. Not too deep, but it'll scar."
"Scars don't bother me," Santana says.
Audrey glances up briefly. "Didn't think they would."
She pulls out the suture tray and begins cleaning the wound with practiced movements. The antiseptic stings. Santana flinches once, the muscles in her jaw tightening, but says nothing.
When Audrey begins stitching, the pain is sharper—each push of the needle into skin drags a slight twitch from Santana's fingers. She doesn't make a sound, but her breathing changes, just barely. Audrey notices.
"You can squeeze the stress ball," Audrey says, nodding to the side.
"I'm good."
"You sure? Some folks try to act tough—end up sweating through their shirt."
Santana doesn't reply. But her shoulders square and her eyes stay locked on the ceiling.
The needle pierces again. This one hurts more—Audrey knows it. Santana's arm tenses, her hand involuntarily jerking just enough for Audrey to pause and press it down gently.