The antiseptic stillness of the VIP recovery wing was shattered only by the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of Arm's oxygen concentrator. Arm sat propped up against the pillows, his face a map of lacerations and dark, blooming contusions. His eyes, however, were wide—burning with a feverish, restless energy that no sedative could dampen.
A soft knock at the door preceded Enock Armitage. He entered tentatively, his presence a stark contrast to the sterile room. Enock looked like a man who had finally found the peace Arm had set on fire; he moved with the steady, grounded gait of a new father, though his eyes held a flicker of cautious pity for his cousin.
"You look like hell, Arm," Enock said quietly, pulling a plastic chair closer to the bed. He didn't offer a hand—he knew Arm's pride was more wounded than his ribs.
