Riven stirred in the sterile stillness of the recovery room, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the frosted window. The ceiling above was unfamiliar—stark white with thin, glowing strips of artificial light—and for a moment, he couldn't remember where he was.
Then the pain came.
A slow, pulsing throb radiated from his right shoulder down through his chest, dragging back the memories of collapsing, of voices yelling, of darkness swallowing him whole. He hissed quietly as he tried to shift, immediately aware of the tight, pulling sensation near his collarbone and side.
Looking down, he noticed thick white bandages wrapped diagonally across his upper body—from his right shoulder across to his left side. A sharp ache came with every breath, and when he lifted his arm slightly, he winced. There were stitches beneath the gauze. Lots of them.
Not critical, he thought grimly, but damn close.
Grimacing, he sat up in bed. His body felt stiff, as if it had been held still too long. Muscles protested every movement, and the tightness in his torso made even breathing a careful effort. Still, he forced himself through a few gentle motions. Breathe. Twist. Reach. Pain lanced through his ribs and shoulder, but it was manageable.
Just as he reached for the glass of water on the side table, the door creaked open.
A man in a white coat stepped inside—middle-aged, with streaks of grey at his temples and a calm, practiced demeanor. His ID tag identified him as Dr. Leor Halden.
"Good to see you up," Dr. Halden said with a warm smile, approaching with a datapad in hand. "You gave us a bit of a scare, Mr. Valehart."
Riven offered a tired nod. "Feels like I got run over by a Donphan."
"That's not an uncommon feeling in the recovery wing." The doctor chuckled as he checked Riven's vitals on the nearby monitor. "You're not in critical condition anymore, but I won't lie—you were close. Deep lacerations to the shoulder and upper chest. We had to stitch you up from the clavicle down to the ribs. You lost a lot of blood."
Riven blinked at the mention of how bad it had been. He remembered flashes—mud, trees, something moving in the dark—but not the actual moment it happened.
"Can I leave?"
Dr. Halden raised an eyebrow. "Eager, are we? Technically, yes, you're cleared for discharge, though you should be under observation for another day. At the very least, you need to take it very easy—no traveling, no battling, and absolutely no tearing those stitches. You'll be sent off with painkillers, anti-inflammatories, and a follow-up scan scheduled if you remain in Velridge."
Riven nodded. "Understood. I won't do anything reckless."
"One more thing," the doctor added, tapping on his pad. "Someone from the city guard is scheduled to visit you shortly. Just routine questioning."
Riven blinked. "Questioning? What for?"
Dr. Halden gave him a neutral look. "Nothing serious. It's just... one of the Poké Balls in your possession doesn't match the standard registration format , I believe?"
Riven stiffened slightly.
"The ball it's housed in—it's... non-standard. No registry number. Older tech, though still functional. It triggered a flag when your belongings were logged. These things happen—family heirlooms, lost relics, custom casings—but it's procedure to ask."
"I understand," Riven said slowly. "I'll answer whatever they need."
Dr. Halden smiled again, this time with a little more warmth. "Good. Now then, your breakfast will be brought to your room shortly. Get some food in you. You look like you haven't eaten in days."
With a final nod, the doctor turned and left the room.
Silence fell again, broken only by the faint hum of the ventilation system. Riven sat back against the pillow, exhaling slowly.
They don't know anything. Good. Whatever had happened out there—whatever he'd seen, or thought he'd seen—had left no clear trail. No interrogation about corrupted zones or strange powers. Just a strange Pokéball.
He could manage that.
Before long, there was a soft knock. The door opened to reveal a young nurse with gentle eyes and auburn hair tied into a tight bun. She entered with a tray balanced in her hands.
"Good morning, Mr. Valehart," she said cheerfully. "Breakfast."
Riven's stomach answered before he could—growling loudly enough to make the nurse stifle a laugh.
He scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Guess I'm hungrier than I thought."
"I'd say so." She wheeled the tray to his bedside table and carefully laid out the meal. Eggs, grilled greens, steamed rice, and a side of something savory-smelling—some sort of slow-cooked meat. "Take your time, and if you need anything, press the button on the wall, okay?"
"Thanks," he murmured, already reaching for the fork.
As the door closed behind her, Riven dug in. It wasn't anything fancy, but to his starved body, it might as well have been gourmet. Every bite grounded him—a reminder that he was still here, still alive. The warmth from the food seemed to chase away some of the lingering cold that clung to his bones.
When he finished, he leaned back, hands resting on his stomach, and sighed in contentment. For a moment, he allowed himself to simply be.
Then came another knock.
This one was firmer, more deliberate.
Riven sat up straighter.
The man who entered was young but carried himself with crisp authority. He was slender, with neatly styled blonde hair and sharp, intelligent eyes. His dark navy uniform bore the crest of the Velridge City Guard on the shoulder.
"Riven Valehart?" he asked politely, stepping inside.
"That's me."
The man offered a nod. "I'm Officer Maren. I'm here on behalf of the City Guard to speak with you briefly—nothing invasive. We just need to clarify a few things regarding your registration and one of your Poké Balls."
Riven nodded slowly. "The strange pokeball?"
Maren's brow lifted slightly. "Correct. May I sit?"
"Yeah. Go ahead."
As Officer Maren sat across from him, Riven straightened up, mind already racing.