After Till was saved by the rebellion, he started seeing things. He couldnt determine whether it was real or imaginary at first, since nobody seemed to acknowledge the looming presence. Till was on a lot of medication for his throat injury, after all, and psychological pain mixed poorly with this confusion. Days went by, spent stuck in this spare room on an old bed while wearing unfamiliar clothing. He grew complacent to the sight of unwelcome company, a pain-induced figure.

He zones out, gaze fixed on the strip light in the ceiling. Among distress is worry, anxiety creeping up more than the thoughts of what he had endured did in nights prior. Fingernails scrape against the skin of his neck, digging at raw wounds, desperate to be rid of an itch that won't disappear. Traces of Ivan linger in that dripping shade of red, in the way iron bites at his nostrils upon inhalation. For a moment, it can be silenced.