The floor beneath her was not wood. No, it was painted to look like wood, but the smooth, unnatural surface beneath her palm told her it was something far sturdier, far more impenetrable.
"Damn it," she muttered, forcing herself to push up off the floor. Her legs were shaky, weak—surprising, considering the amount of time she'd spent unconscious. After being in a coma for three years, most people would have been nothing more than a fragile skeleton, struggling to stand.
But as she rose to her knees, something felt off. Her body wasn't wasted, it wasn't frail. In fact, it felt almost... healthy? There was muscle where there should have been decay, strength where there should have been weakness. She ran a hand over her arm, surprised by the solidness beneath her fingers. How?
