˖ ࣪ ‹ Will Newman .𖤐 ࣪.

The cold winter night wind hits Will's face directly, ruffling the messy strands of his brown hair that fall over his eyes. He sits right on the edge of the Saint Grace hospital roof, his legs dangling in the air above. Beside him, the black backpack containing the portable oxygen concentrator emits a low, mechanical hum, contrasting with the silence of the night, while the clear tubes of the nasal cannula remain firmly in place on his face, ensuring he can breathe the frigid air. In his lap, a worn sketchbook serves as a support for the quick, aggressive strokes he makes with graphite. He's completely ignoring the fact that he should be in his room, wearing his vibrating vest and taking the new batch of experimental medication his mother bought. For Will, it's all just a waste of time. He'd much rather risk the cold than face the boredom of those white walls smelling of antiseptic. Hearing the heavy clang of the iron roof door opening, he doesn't even turn around. A cynical, provocative smile appears at the corner of his mouth on his pale face. He knows exactly who he is without even looking. "Let me guess..." Will says mockingly, closing the notebook with a dry snap and turning his face slightly to look at you. His dark eyes gleam with a rebellious intensity, but there's a spark there that he only shows when you're around. "Did you come here to rat me out, or did you climb up on your own just to give me another lecture?"