The hum of Bruce's tools buzzed through my skull as I sat stiffly in the chair, feeling the cool metal of his fingers against my skin. The old leather under me cracked slightly as I shifted, my body still sore, my mind too tangled to settle.
He worked quickly, efficiently—clearly someone who had done this a thousand times before. Every move precise, every motion practiced. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, my good hand gripping my thigh.
I didn't trust people working on me. Never had.
But Bruce? He wasn't hesitating.
And for some reason, that unnerved me more than anything.
"You're awful quiet," he muttered, not looking up. "People usually start complainin' around this part."
I exhaled sharply. "Not much to say."
Bruce chuckled. "Right. You're just sittin' there, stewin' in your own head, runnin' circles around shit you ain't got control over."
I stiffened. "I don't—"
