The bathroom hums.

The light above flickers with a weak, electric whine—too dim to be useful, too bright to ignore. It stutters like it wants to fail, it’s tired of seeing what comes through the door.

A tired figure enters.

He doesn’t so much step as hobbles—thin limbs drawn tight to his frame, as if trying to take up less space than he's owed. The air is thick with the scent of bleach and damp tile, like someone scrubbed blood out of the grout and then gave up halfway.

He closes the door behind him.

Not gently. Just final.

His breath fogs faintly in the cold. A hand reaches out to steady itself on the sink’s edge—long black nails, skin pale violet and a little waxy, the subtle sheen of fever-sweat not yet gone. A ruby ring clings to the fourth finger like a wound. The veins under the skin are faint and purple-blue, just deep enough to betray how close the bone runs now.

He doesn’t look at the mirror. Not quiet yet.

Instead, he studies the counter, the floor, the dark grout lines. Golden eyes drawn to the condensation bead trailing down the side of the faucet. He follows it like it’s important, like if he watches long enough, he’ll disappear into it.

His frame is slight. Too slight.

Shoulders too sharp. Skin pulled too tight like a rawhide drum. The weight loss is subtle, but it shows—hollowed in the throat, the soft fall of the belly now stretched thin over ribs. His long black hair sticks to the sides of his face, damp where it brushed against his neck, the ends tangled around the base of dark horns. They arcs in high crescents above his head—deep violet, darkening at the tip.

He breathes like someone trying not to.

He grips the porcelain harder, nails tapping once, then curling into his palm. Almost no strength behind it.  There’s a vibration in his bones. Not trembling—just... echo. His body remembering the pain and still preparing for more. He shouldn’t be upright. Yet he is.

A long slender tail curls once at his ankle before pulling away again, uneasy. It twitches without rhythm, as if it’s remembering something his mind has kindly blacked out.

Across the room, the clothes wait.

They don’t belong here.

A deep red jacket is draped across the shower rod, silk catching light in a way the walls try to ignore. The shirt beneath is still half-unbuttoned, starched collar slightly turned, cuffs undone. Gold thread embroidery coils through the lapels like hidden teeth. Even the tie is pre-knotted, waiting like a leash.

Every stitch tailored. Every detail intentional.

He should already be in it.

Instead, he stands here. Barefoot on freezing tile. His weight leaned forward. His body still learning how to hold itself again. He hasn’t had time to rebuild, only survive.

There’s a towel hanging on the wall—stiff, unused, hotel-issue. A single toothbrush, never opened. He hasn’t unpacked. He doesn’t live here. He’s only passing through.

The silence is immense.

The mirror watches him quietly from above the sink, framed in tarnished brass. He hasn’t looked into it.

Not yet.

But he can feel it. He knows what waits there.

He shifts his grip, as if he might turn away, might flee. But the room is too small, and the silence has already named him.

He leans forward, slightly.

And lifts his eyes.

His breath leaves him.

Not fast, not sudden. Just… gone. Like his body no longer sees the point.

He grips the sink harder. Grasping on to pull himself forward. His knees hit the cabinet below with a dull knock. The mirror is still showing everything. Every mark. Every fault.

And there he is.

For a moment, it doesn’t register.

There’s just shape and color—lavender skin in the cold white light, black hair slicked wet against sharp collarbones, the faint gleam of crescent horns above each temple. He looks too young for the damage he carries. Twenty-something at most, but the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the dark marks under each eye say otherwise.

His gaze catches on the left eye—two pupils, a split stare that shouldn’t exist. Yellow, bright as candleflame. Familiar. Blurry.

But it’s the right eye that halts him.

A scar cuts across it, from brow to cheekbone, an angry seam still threaded in black stitches, almost red with dried blood. The skin around it is bruised and sallow, turning a sickly grey and yellow as it heals. The eye beneath is bloodshot, the lid just a little heavier now. Crooked. Unfixable.

And lower—

He turns, just slightly. Enough to catch the other one.

His side.

The motion is slow, reluctant, like a frozen branch beginning to thaw beneath the jaundiced green light of the bathroom.

The scar there fans out like a starburst—chaotic, jagged, uneven. Shattered flesh curls outward in a pattern that only the bullet could understand, the way it broke apart inside him like glass under pressure. The bruising sprawls across his skin like a dying storm—sickly green, deep violet, and fading yellow. There's a single origin point, then a long cut that arcs through the heart of it, slicing across his whole left side. Its tail disappears below the counter, and the head of it curves just above his nipple.

It looks like something tried to get out.

He stares at it for too long.

The silence grows teeth.

The shame hits like sickness.

The cold comes next. Slow, creeping. It starts at the edges—fingers, toes, the tip of his nose—and folds inward like a dying flower. His vision narrows. There’s a hollow hum behind his eyes, like the air’s been sucked out of the room. Light-headed, weightless, the world tilts a few degrees off center. Everything gets too quiet.

He’s ruined it.

He ruined it.

The one thing he was given—a gift that was always questioned. This body. It was all he had to remind himself where he came from, to show who he came from. To not be a burden. To not be a failure. It wasn’t perfect, but the gaze behind it wasn’t his—and he had kept it that way. Untouched. Unbroken.

Until now.

Now it’s ruined.

And no apology will put it back the way it was.

His eyes fall to his hand, to the ring that gleams red on his finger.

He doesn’t linger there, doesn’t let the thought take shape—but it makes everything worse. The air thickens. His skin turns cold. And his head tilts back under a growing weight, like something heavy is settling in his skull, dragging him toward the dark. His body begs him to pass out.

And now it’s carved. Split. Ugly.

Disobedient.

He lurches forward over the sink, a burning rush flooding his chest—hot and bitter, like fire rising from the pit of his stomach.

The first sound that comes out is broken—a hiccup, a choke, something between a gasp and a sob.

Then the retching begins. Violent. Hard enough to hurt. Dry at first—just the body trying to fold in on itself—then wet. Bitter and bright. Blood and bile splatter the yellow-stained porcelain, streaking the basin with a shade too dark to ignore. It stinks of iron. Acid. Stomach-sick regret.

His hair falls around his face, shielding nothing. Long black strands soaking in the bile. His claws scrape against porcelain as he heaves again, deeper this time. His ribs press sharply against his skin like he’s made of thorns. The sound echoes in the tiny room, raw and human.

He spits once, coughs a lot more, breath stuttering as he chokes on the leftover air. His throat burns. His knees shake, their hollow feeling returning.

The mirror doesn’t flinch.

It just reflects.He lifts his delicate hands to his face, brushing iron-stained strands of hair from his cheeks. But part of him hesitates—part of him doesn’t want to move it. His palm lingers, cradling the torn curve of his cheek, fingertips grazing the fresh scar. The ruby-red gem on his ring catches the light, gleaming back at him like an accusation.That eye—his right—half-shut and bloodshot, rimmed in deep bruising. The grey line of stitches grins back at him through the negative space between his fingers. Sickly, yellowed, and raw. There’s nothing in it now but pain.

He stares at it.

Stares until the glass blurs, until all he can see is failure looking back.

Then— A knock. Soft. Careful.

“Boss?” Belvedere’s voice, low through the hotel door. Not prying. Just there.

“You alright in there?”