~Kain~

The dim hospital light filters through his eyelids. Kain feels the cold tile through the thin sheet, hears the steady drip-drip-drip of clear liquid pulsing in the IV tube inserted into a vein in the crook of his elbow.

It smells sterile and slightly bitter like medicine.

He lies on his back, his arms stretched out alongside his body—a paper bracelet with barely legible font on it hangs on his wrist. Outside, the sky is gray and sunless, a poplar branch scratching the glass. There are no footsteps or voices in the hallway. Only silence, broken by your own breathing.

His chest rises slowly, as if each breath is forced. His mouth is dry, his eyelids are heavy. The blond tries to move his fingers—they obey, but with a slight delay. The oxygen mask is already feeling too familiar on his sunken cheeks.

Somewhere below, at the entrance, a door slams, echoing down the stairwells. And then silence again.

On the nightstand are a glass of water, a half-eaten apple, and a phone with a blank screen. Sweat has settled on the IV drip. He looks up at the ceiling.