𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐌𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝟎𝟏𝟔

"𝙄'𝙢 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙄 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨.
𝙄'𝙢 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙝𝙪𝙢𝙖𝙣, 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩'𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨.
𝙏𝙤 𝙥𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚. 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙥𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙢𝙚."

𝘏𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 - 𝘙𝘢𝘨'𝘯'𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘯

▲ ▲ ▲ ▲

You lurched forward in bed, clutching the thin blankets that were wrapped around you in a tight cocoon. You realized all at once that you weren't in your usual cot, pressed against the corner of the initiation dormitories. This room was bright, white, and blinding and for a fleeting moment, you considered the idea that you might be back in your bedroom in Amity.

But just like the Dauntless dark, the light was also artificial.

Flickering fluorescent bulbs hummed overhead, beaming down at you and casting sharp shadows across the floor. Six or seven beds were lined neatly against the walls, all of them empty but yours. A long black curtain stood between you and the cot beside you, obstructing your view of the doorway. But you could still easily see the opposite wall and the cabinet of medical supplies that Eric Coulter was currently leaning against. 

The machine next to your head began beeping frantically as you jackknifed up in bed. You were unfamiliar with most technology; the glowing scoreboard and those little square tablets that all the leaders carried around boggled your mind every time you saw them. You also weren't exactly used to waking up in the same room as Eric, although it had happened twice now.

He glanced up from where he'd been wringing his hands, jaw instantly tightening and his posture turning strict. He seemed uncomfortable being caught doing something so human. There was something deep brewing behind his eyes, like a dust storm. You figured it must be what disappointment looked like on him.

"Where am I?" you croaked. Your face felt numb and puffy and there was a dull ache pulsing through the rest of your body. Eric licked his lips, gaze softening before hardening all over again. You must've looked even worse than you felt.

"You're in the infirmary. Edward did quite a number on you." He tried to chuckle but stopped when he realized you weren't laughing along with him. It was so much easier to be funny when he could make jokes at the expense of his scrawny initiates. "His training's been suspended for attempted murder."

Amongst other things, he thinks. But instead focuses on the way your eyebrows knit together and your hands fold gingerly in your lap as you piece together his explanation. "No," you insist quietly. "I mean...where am I?"

He put a supportive hand on the cabinet behind him, wrapping his fist tightly around the ledge. How hard did that motherfucker hit you? Eric would tear every room in this compound apart to find that sorry son of a bitch if he left you with more than just a few bruised ribs and a cut on your lip.

You frowned as Eric studied you, blinking slowly and analytically. "...on the scoreboard?" you clarified.

Oh. Right.

He cleared his throat but ultimately dismissed you with a quick jerk of his chin, eyes wandering toward the window. It's dark out, which means you've slept through the rest of the day at least. 

"That doesn't matter right now."

"You know it does," you press, throwing aside your blankets. One of the medics must have changed you out of your bloodied training clothes because you now found yourself in your grey pullover and black athletic shorts. Bandages and sutures littered most of your exposed skin and the sight of your bruises left an awful taste in your mouth—like rotten citrus.