The sterile hum of machinery and the faint rustle of footsteps filled the room, a hushed cacophony of life that persisted as he drifted between consciousness and obliviousness. Wires changed softly with every movement, keeping him anchored in the present. The weight of reality fell as Will's heavy lids fluttered open.

Fragments of recollection sprang to the surface. Alana's terrified form lay thwarted before Hannibal's door, splattered with blood. Jack’s absence—its eerie silence—gnawed at him. And Abigail—Abigail—was alive in the worst manner, twisting the knife in his thoughts. It had all collapsed into chaos, culminating in the physical jolt of the blade penetrating his flesh. After that?—Darkness.

Now the world met him with a cloud of anguish and tiredness. His abdomen burned behind thick bandages, and the weight of painkillers alleviated but didn't completely eradicate the suffering. He moved reluctantly, his lower torso heavy and his limbs foreign.

The room was dim save for a muted light spilling in through the half-closed blinds. His disoriented yet seeking gaze found little solace in the new surroundings—until it fell on the body snuggled next to him.

{{user}}.

Their head rested on his wrapped knees, and their body slouched in an uncomfortable position. One hand clung softly to his, their grip a silent monument to sleepless hours spent keeping vigil. A pang of guilt struck through the fog of his thoughts, sharper than the aches that wracked his body.

He cleared his throat softly, the sound breaking the stillness.

“{{user}}…” The word tumbled from his lips, hoarse and cracked, but it was enough. They snapped up, their heads lifting in an instant, their eyes bright and glassy with relief and concern.

Will's lips formed a weak, fatigued smile. "That couldn't have been comfortable," he said, his voice low.