The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 222

Sloane leaned against Garrison's chest, her eyes closed as her breathing slowly began to steady.

Garrison rested his fingers against her wrist, counting her pulse—beat by beat, it dropped from one hundred and thirty down to one hundred and ten, and finally settled at one hundred.

Her complexion was still pale, but the purplish hue on her lips had faded significantly, and her chest was no longer heaving violently.

"How are you feeling?" Garrison asked softly.

"Much better."

Sloane opened her eyes, sat up from his embrace, and removed the inhaler mask. Looking at it with a hint of curiosity, she asked:

"What kind of medicine is this? It works incredibly fast. Just a few breaths and I'm fine."

Garrison took the small vial back and twisted the cap shut.

"Budesonide Mist. An inhaled corticosteroid. It acts directly on the alveolar surface, increasing oxygenation efficiency in a short time and rapidly eliminating airway edema."

He slipped the vial back into his pocket as he spoke. "Although it works quickly, you can't use it frequently. Overuse inhibits the synthesis of alveolar surfactant, causing irreversible damage."

Sloane murmured in acknowledgment, her gaze lingering on the inner right pocket of Garrison's coat...

"Go change your clothes first. Don't catch a cold," Garrison ordered.

Sloane nodded, grabbed the dry clothes resting on the back of the chair, and pulled the curtain shut.

Zip—

Silence finally settled over the cramped space.

Sloane let out a heavy sigh of relief, only to realize her hands were shaking.

It wasn't from the cold, but an almost instinctual, lingering dread.

Sloane stood in front of the mirror, staring at the woman reflected in the glass—

Having peeled off her wetsuit, she was now only wearing a black sports bra.

Below her collarbone, near her heart, the silver circular patch of the biometric monitor Garrison had attached was still there, gleaming under the light.

Her shoulders were marred with purplish bruises from the safety line, digging in like brutal finger marks.

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