Page 24 of The Shape of my Scar (The Unbroken #1)

T he door opened with a soft click , and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stepped in with his surgical cap hanging from one hand.

His scrubs were creased after the long hours and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of too many nights without sleep.

He looked like he hadn’t sat down in hours.

“Dr. Gupta,” the resident said softly behind him, by way of introduction.

He gave a tired nod. “My name is Arun. I am the thoracic surgeon overseeing Faolan’s care.”

He glanced around at the small group in the room—Zel, Thane, Jac, Callum, and Cormac—each of them drawn and silent, faces like stone.

“We managed to control the bleeding,” he began, his voice calm but clipped, his cutglass accent now softened by years in the NHS. “It was touch and go for a while, but she’s stable for now.”

No one spoke, but the collective shift in posture was unmistakable, like a building just barely standing after an earthquake.

Dr. Gupta continued, his tone shifting into explanation.

“She has what’s called a flail chest. When she fell after the bullet wound, she hit a hard surface, likely concrete or the edge of a table.

That impact broke three ribs; two of them fractured in multiple places, creating a section of bone that’s essentially detached from the rest of the rib cage.

” He paused, noting the pale tension on Cormac’s face.

“That section moves in the opposite direction when she tries to breathe. Inhale, it sinks. Exhale, it bulges. It’s dangerous as it compromises breathing and can worsen underlying lung damage.

We’ve stabilized it using ventilation for now.

We decided against fixing the surgically—too risky at this stage—but that may change. ”

Thane ran a hand over his jaw. “And the bullet?”

Dr. Gupta nodded solemnly. “The bullet punctured the lung on the same side, which caused air to leak into the chest cavity, collapsing the lung. We inserted a chest drain to remove the air and re-expand it. She’s on a ventilator like I said, and we’ve induced a coma to keep her sedated and minimize pain and respiratory stress. ”

“What happens next?” Callum asked, his voice rough.

“We watch her very closely,” Dr. Gupta replied.

“There are risks, of course—infection or re-accumulation of air. Scarring. Lung function loss. She’ll be in significant pain when she wakes, even with all the measures we’re taking.

We are going to keep her on oxygen for a while.

She lost a lot of blood rapidly and her heart stopped for a while, so…

” He seemed to hesitate. “We don’t know if her brain was starved of oxygen due to that.

We will know more when we try to wake her up. ”

“And if she doesn’t…” Zel began.

Dr. Gupta looked directly at him. There was compassion in his eyes, dulled only by exhaustion. “She’s fighting. That’s all I can tell you. For now, she’s alive. But this is a fragile truce with her body, and one we can’t afford to take for granted. We will do what we can.”

“Can we….can we see her?” Thane asked hesitantly.

“She is at high risk for infections, so you will need to use protective gear and keep contact to the minimum. However, you can take turns to see her. Wait until tomorrow, alright? Every extra hour is a blessing.”

He gave a slight nod and turned for the door, a man who has had similar conversations with loved ones one too many times.

In the aftermath, no one spoke.

Cormac sat hunched forward in the stiff plastic chair, one hand covering his eyes, the other curled into a fist against his thigh.

His shoulders shook with the effort to contain the sobs, but the sound still broke through.

Callum sat beside him, a steady hand on his shoulder, supporting him with his quiet presence.

Jac stood off to the side, dazed, like someone had just struck him with a board and left him swaying on his feet. His lips moved, but no sound came. Thane couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe properly. The words from the doctor echoed in his head, looping, crashing.

She could die.

He had only just found her.

And she could be gone.

He was cursed.

Zel stood with his arms crossed, face tight. After a long silence, he said quietly, “We’ll take turns staying. She’s not going to be alone.” He turned to Callum. “Does your dad know?”

Callum nodded faintly. “He was on vacation in Indonesia. He’s already flying back.”

Time passed slowly after that. Every second dragged like it was being pulled through wet sand.

Thane hadn’t moved from the corner of the room. He just stared at the linoleum floor, muscles locked.

“Go,” Cormac said suddenly, his voice rough.

Thane blinked.

“Do us all favour,” Cormac ground out, his face red and streaked with tears. “Go. Let us be in peace. I don’t want to see your face and be reminded…” He stood, breathing hard, nostrils flaring. “If not for you…”

Jac stepped between them. “I’m going to get food and clothes,” he muttered. His voice had more steel than expected. “I’ll be back. Calm down, Cormac. Fee needs you.”

Cormac seemed to deflate like a punctured balloon.

Jac left, but not before glancing once over his shoulder at Thane with an unreadable expression.

Thane didn’t move. He wiped his hands on the front of his pants, then clenched and unclenched his fists. He couldn’t seem to keep still. The adrenaline was making its way out of his body, leaving him shaken.

Zel finally stepped in. “We’ll go,” he said, gripping Thane’s arm with a quiet firmness. “Let’s shower, eat something, and come back. We will be back soon, I promise.”

Thane opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t form past the permanent lump in his throat. He just nodded, barely. He couldn’t meet Faolan’s brothers’ eyes.

They drove home in silence. The city outside blurred past in grey shapes and dull lights.

When they reached the flat, the door creaked open to the familiar smell of whisky and burnt toast.

Maro was on the couch, drinking straight from the bottle. Lirian sat across from him with a glass in one hand and a too-still look on his face, his mouth tilted into something that almost resembled a smile at a job well done.

Maro looked up. “Whoa. Who peed on your birthday cake, lad? Did someone die?” he joked.

The moment fractured.

Thane stared at him. “It’s her.”

Maro blinked. “What?”

“Trish. Only it wasn’t Trish. She is Faolan…or Dory,” whispered Thane.

Maro sat upright, the bottle slipping from his hand. It pinged against the carpet and the dark liquid spreading in a blotch.

“No,” he whispered, like if he denied it fast enough, it would change the truth.

Zel briefly explained what had happened.

Lirian had gone utterly still. The smile vanished, his eyes were wide and stricken.

A look like grief and fear. It felt like they were back to the day they escaped, watching their prison burn as cherry blossom petals rained down on them.

“Thane,” he said, voice thin. “What have you done?”

“I didn’t know,” Thane whispered, backing toward the wall. “I swear to God, I didn’t know it was her…”

“How could you not know?” Lirian’s voice cracked. “How could you not know it was her?”

And then Maro was on him, fists flying. The first punch caught Thane’s cheekbone, the second to the gut. Thane didn’t fight back.

He deserved this.

Every blow, every curse. He had it coming. The guilt was eating him alive.

Zel yanked Maro off him, dragging Thane down the hallway and into the bathroom. “Undress,” he ordered.

Thane didn’t argue. He stripped like he was sleepwalking. Zel tossed him a towel and disappeared into the kitchen.

By the time Thane emerged—hair wet, towel still around his neck—Zel was heating a tin of soup in a scratched saucepan.

Thane sat on the edge of the bed, face in his hands. His tattoos glistened with water, inked vines and runes curling down his chest and along his right arm.

He absently rubbed at the place over his heart.

Zel returned, placed a mug of soup on the side table, then sat beside him, holding his own cup. He’d showered, too, damp hair slicked back, wearing an old grey hoodie.

He didn’t say a word. All he had to offer was silence and company.

No one slept that night.