Bandages. Y/n tries to lift an arm and finds it weighted down, wrapped in clean white gauze from wrist to elbow. The other arm— same. Familiar. Too familiar, really, the way the wrappings sit against the skin. But the hands peeking out from the ends are smaller than they should be. The fingers are shorter. The knuckles less calloused.

A curtain partition separates the cot from the rest of the room. Beyond it, there's the shuffle of paper, the clink of glass vials, and voices— muffled but urgent.

Recovery Girl's eyes are tired. Kind, but tired. She takes in the state of the girl on the cot— the long, tangled blonde hair fanned across the flat pillow, the bright cyan eyes blinking up at her through the haze of painkillers— and something in her expression softens.