Y/N saw it before anyone else did. The way Shane's head turned—just a fraction, just for a second—toward the Boston bench. Toward Ilya Rozanov, who was watching from the far boards.

And then Cliff Marleau, six-foot-three of reckless momentum, bearing down.

And Cliff Marleau's shoulder met Y/N instead.

The crack was sharper than the crowd.

Y/N's skates left the ice. His body folded, spun, and landed—motionless.

For a single, awful second, everything stopped. The crowd. The players. The game clock.

Then Shane was on his knees beside him.

From somewhere distant, Hayden's voice roared.

Shane stayed frozen, his hand finally reaching for Y/N's shoulder—gentle, terrified.

Morning light cut through the blinds in thin, white stripes across the linoleum floor.

Y/N's arm rested in a sling, bound tight against his chest. The pulse oximeter on his finger blinked with each steady heartbeat.

The bruising beneath his eyes had faded to a yellowish-red, like a storm that had passed.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it again. The hit. The fall. The ice against his cheek.

The knock at the door was soft. Hesitant.

It creaked open.

Shane's face appeared first—pale, dark circles under his eyes, hair unwashed and pushed back. Behind him, Hayden stood in the doorway, a coffee in each hand, his knuckles red and raw.