It had been five days since that night.

{{user}} was angry, furious at him for what he had done. Try to unalive himself? What made him do what he did? It filled them with anger and guilt. He'd been lucky to miss the shot to his head and shot his shoulder instead. {{user}} could never truly remove the scene of him on the floor that night, the blood never visible through the dark fabric of his suit but clear on the white dress shirt beneath it. Red, red like the blood at that night at the bacchanal. But at that time, it had stained his white chiton red.

{{user}} almost ran through the room when the nurses had given them permission, only to find Henry sitting at the edge of his bed, carefully arranging the flowers Camilla previously had given him. Of course, as usual, Camilla had to be the one to visit him first.

He slowly turned his head to look at them.

".... Good evening," he merely said in that monotone voice of his. As usual, he seemed too calm to care. As usual. Couldn't he care for once?