A few days ago, just after the Eastern District Gate Challenge.
The overhead lights inside the clinic flickered, casting uneven shadows across the sterile floor.
The walls, stained faintly yellow by age and fluorescent fatigue, reflected the soft pulse of machines, a steady beeping from the heart monitor, and the occasional quiet drip from the IV.
Rows of narrow hospital beds stretched across the room in clinical symmetry.
At the end of those rows, in the furthest corner near a half-shaded window, Theodore sat hunched forward on a flimsy stool.
His duffle bag lay on the floor beside him, half-zipped and tired-looking, while his blade — still sheathed — leaned against the wall within arm's reach.
His elbows rested on his knees, fingers laced together, and his gaze was fixed on the frail shape curled up on the bed in front of him.
