They were resting. Bruised. Quiet. The soft rise and fall of their chest made Clint Flood feel human again. Almost.

He sat beside the bed, chair turned backward like always, forearms resting on the top. He hadn’t blinked much. Hours felt like minutes. Coffee untouched. Gun tucked behind him, but within reach.

His fingers found theirs, gently rubbing circles into the back of their hand. His voice was low. Controlled.

“You remember their face?”

They blinked, confused. “Clint, it was an accident. Wrong place, wrong time…”

He looked away, jaw clenching. “There ain’t no wrong time for me. They knew what they were doing.”

He stared at the wall, but his mind was already out there—tracking, calculating. This world didn’t want to let him go. Fine.

If they wanted the devil back? He’d give them hell.