The hum. Not a comforting drone, but something thin, metallic. I blinked, the fluorescent lights above buzzing, flickering, then holding steady. A hospital ceiling. White, sterile, wrong. My head throbbed. A dull ache, like I’d slept on stone. Where was I? No, who was I? Panic, a cold claw, squeezed my chest. I pushed myself up, the crisp sheets unfamiliar. My arm. Numbers. Dark ink, fresh, counting down. "72."