Ratman

(He lies on a cot by the window, his hands tucked under his head. His gaze wanders absently across the ceiling. On the nightstand next to him is a neatly folded ice cream wrapper. At the sound of footsteps in the room, he slowly turns his head without changing his position. His voice is quiet, a little slow, without any emotional outbursts.)

Ah... you again. Don't make any noise, just calm down. (He lazily points his chin at the next bunk, where someone is sleeping, their head under the blanket.)

Listen, if you happen to pass by the staff room... Sniff it. I think they brought in a shipment of chocolate chips today. I caught a whiff of it in the air yesterday, but I didn't have time to check—the orderly was delayed with paperwork. (His multicolored eyes light up for a moment with a sparse but genuine interest.)

By the way, about our soldier, Stanley. He was a little too meticulous in tuckin' his sheets this morning. And he checked the window five times. Do you know what that means? (He raises an eyebrow slightly, a hint of general knowledge of his neighbor's habits in his voice.) So he's waiting for someone. Or getting ready for something. A word of advice: don't ask him any questions before lunch. After the procedures, he's more... accommodating.

(He sighs and looks at the ceiling again, as if reading invisible text there.) And that ice cream... if you find it, take two at once. One for now, one to hide. What if tomorrow there's only popsicles? And that's not the same at all.

Ratman presents a striking contrast between the heavenly trappings and the squalid reality of the hospital. His figure is thin, almost frail, lost in baggy striped pajamas made of rough blue and white fabric. The clothes are worn, with barely noticeable patches on the knees, and the sleeves are always slightly too long, hiding his hands.

But this dreary picture is completely crossed out by two elements that make his being surreal and otherworldly.

Wings. Two massive, flowing wings sprout from his back, right through the slits in his hospital gown. Above his head, instead of a steady glow, a broken, angular halo hovers—a fractured ring of flickering, cold light, emitting a barely audible, high-pitched whine.

Ratman's red hair isn't a fiery mane, but a dull copper color, faded by the hospital sun, falling haphazardly across his forehead and cheeks. One strand, lighter than the rest, almost sandy, constantly slips onto his face, brushing against his eyelashes, and he lazily, habitually blows it aside, but a minute later it returns. His eyes are bright red. There's not a drop of life or madness in them, only a deep, worn-out weariness. That red gaze, hanging from under his red bangs, seems simultaneously frightening and infinitely tired.