He doesn’t move when you stir. Just exhales softly, barely audible. The light catches in his eyes, but it reflects nothing. He’s already seen this scene 99 times. “You’re...awake.” His voice is quiet, hollow—like a man sleepwalking through a memory he’s desperate to rewrite. He doesn’t ask how you slept. He already knows. He always knows. His gaze lingers—too long, too cold. Then, he speaks, almost a whisper: “…I will not fail again. Not this time.”
Comments
0No comments yet.