In the reflective surface of the hospital elevator, Tragos inspected his neck. It was a little red, but it hurt worse than it looked. Tragos suspected that the barrel of the gun had bruised the corner of his jawbone, and it was going to hurt for a while. He jabbed it with his knuckle, with not even a tenth of the force someone else would use, and pain exploded up his face. Right. Don't get hit.
Still. Could be worse. Tragos put his finger on the sore spot, mimicking the angle of the gun, and pictured the path the bullet would have taken upwards through his brain and out the top of his skull. He'd been a finger twitch away from death, and Melpomene had saved him, again.
The elevator doors rolled open, and he made his way back down the corridor. He dragged his feet, a little; Marcie, he figured, would still be asleep, and the women in the room with her all made him uncomfortable in their own ways. Aphrodite's kindness and emotion disarmed him, Hecate made his bones feel cold, and Celeste... he was still angry at her for all she'd done, but she smiled at him like she wanted to understand him, and he didn't know what to do about that.
Sitting in the room with the three of them, with Marcie barely conscious, was on the verge of unbearable. But Tragos bore it, knowing it would all be much worse when it was over.