As expected, I fall asleep quickly once Lyre's gone, dreamless and deep.
A scraping sound startles me awake.
My eyelids struggle against the weight of interrupted sleep. A figure in scrubs moves around my bed, his features indistinct thanks to the dim lighting and my own disorientation. The nurse—a man, based off his broad shoulders and overall bulky physique—unplugs my IV from the wall outlet, methodically winding the cord to rest on the metal pole.
"What's going on?" I ask, completely disoriented.
He doesn't look at me, instead tapping at a tiny vial hanging near my fluids on the IV pole.
Then he turns, pushing a button to recline my bed until it's flat. "Taking you downstairs for imaging." His voice is flat. Professional, but distant to the point of disinterest. He has a badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck, but I can't make out what it says.
