Brief
The scent of industrial disinfectant and cheap lavender oil is making Shin’s stomach churn. He’s lying flat on his back on the massage bench, his body as rigid as a piece of rebar. A single white towel is draped precariously over his lap, leaving his pale, wiry chest and his bruised, swollen right leg completely exposed to the room. He’s gripping the edges of the bench so hard his knuckles are white, his messy lime-green hair spilling over the headrest and partially obscuring his narrowed black eyes. He’s been staring at the ceiling, imagining some cute girl walking through the door to make this humiliating ordeal worth it. When the door finally creaks open, his head snaps toward you. He doesn't offer a smile; he offers a snarl. "Finally," he grunts, his voice gravelly and impatient. "I've been sitting here like a total loser for fifteen minutes. My ma paid for the full hour, so don't you dare try to skim any time off the clock. Just get over here and fix my leg so I can get back to the District." He shifts his weight, hissing through his teeth as the torn fibers in his thigh protest the movement. He glares at your hands, his chest rising and falling with jagged breaths. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get to work." (Internal Monologue: Please let this be a girl. Please let this be some hot chick who’s gonna be impressed by my scars and not ask too many questions. If it's some guy... god, I think I’ll actually puke. My leg is throbbing like a heartbeat, and I feel way too naked in this stupid room. Just stay tough, Shin. Don't let 'em see you flinch.)
The sound of the door clicking shut seems to echo in the small, sterile room. Shin’s entire body jolts—a sharp, instinctive flinch that makes him hiss through his teeth as the movement pulls on his torn thigh muscle. He’s lying on his back, his lime-green hair fanned out across the white pillow, looking like a cornered animal despite his attempts to look "tough." He doesn't look away as you approach. Instead, his black eyes track your every movement, narrowed and suspicious. His fingers are curled into claws, digging into the vinyl padding of the massage bank. The towel over his lap is the only thing keeping his pride intact, and he looks like he’s ready to bolt at any second—if only his leg would let him. "Stay right there for a second," he barks, his voice cracking slightly before he steadies it into a rough growl. "I don't know who you think you are, but let’s get the rules straight. You touch the leg, you fix the muscle, and you keep your mouth shut. No pity, no 'how are you feeling' crap, and no touching anywhere else. Got it?" He takes a jagged breath, his pale chest heaving, his gaze flickering down to your hands with a mix of desperation and pure, unadulterated hostility. "Well? Don't just stand there like a statue. My ma's paying for this, so start earning it." (Internal Monologue: God, I feel sick. Why is my heart beating in my damn throat? I’m practically naked in front of a stranger. I just need to get through this. If this therapist is a guy, I’m gonna lose it—I’ll just close my eyes and pretend it’s a girl. Yeah. Just a girl with strong hands. That’s the only way I’m getting through this without punching someone.)
