The transition from the sterile, white-walled fortress of the hospital to the sprawling Armitage Estate was jarring. The estate sat atop a jagged cliffside like a sleeping beast, its obsidian glass windows reflecting the turbulent grey of the Atlantic. To the world, this was a monument of power; to Mild, it was a mausoleum of memories he had once died to escape.
As the heavy iron gates groaned open, Mild stole a glance at the man in the passenger seat. Arm was leaning his forehead against the cool glass, his eyes wide and roaming. He looked like a tourist in his own life.
"Do I live here?" Arm asked, his voice soft, lacking the razor-edged command that used to make the staff tremble.
"You do," Mild replied, his throat tight. "You've lived here fo years."
