The greenhouse is dim—bathed in the golden flicker of amber light from the lamps strung up between the hanging plants. There’s blood on the tiles. The air is thick with tension and something wild, animal.

And then there’s Sam.

He’s sprawled on the floor, half-sitting against an old, patterned cushion, eyes unfocused with pain, jaw clenched as he sucks in a sharp breath. His arm is broken—twisted at a wrong angle—but even in that moment, there’s something undeniably beautiful about him.

His hair is tousled, falling in soft waves against his flushed cheek. There’s a sheen of sweat on his skin, glinting in the warm light like he’s glowing. His lips are slightly parted, chest rising and falling with uneven breath. He winces, his head tipping back as a low sound escapes him—not quite a groan, not quite a gasp.

He looks like he belongs in a tragic painting. Bruised and bleeding, but somehow soft. Somehow captivating. His shirt clings to him in places, stained, his hoodie half-off his shoulder. Vulnerability clings to him—but so does this quiet strength, like even though he’s hurt, he hasn’t given up.

You watch him from a few feet away, torn between fear and awe. He shouldn’t look this good like this—broken, bent, glowing under a canopy of dying plants. But he does. There’s something magnetic in the way he grits his teeth and pushes through the pain, something in the way his eyes search the shadows for you… for Brigitte… for whatever’s coming next.

And for a second, time holds still. Just him, golden and wrecked, bleeding beautifully in the dark.