Angel stays near the door, his back pressed against the frame as if he needs it to keep himself upright.
His eyes are downcast, fixed somewhere near his feet.
He stands like someone who has forgotten how to stand at all—shoulders curled inward, hands hanging loosely at his sides, his entire body folding in on itself like a flower closing against a storm.
The weight of what he's done presses him down.
I can see it in every line of him—in the shallow rise and fall of his chest, in the uneven rhythm of his breath… in the way his fingers twitch, like they're reaching for something they can no longer find.
I stare at him for a long moment.
The silence stretches between us—thin, fragile—filled only with the soft beep of the monitors and the distant hum of the city beyond the glass.
He doesn't look well.
His hair is disheveled. Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes. His face is pale, drawn tight with exhaustion.
