Is this what it was like to meet his gaze? Tired, dull, craving a death that would not come?

Was that streak of grey at his left temple getting bigger? How much longer before stress stripped him of every warm black strand?

How much longer would this last? How much longer would his life be a commodity?

Was a God looking down on him? Or was it only Neith?

"Jesus, Javi..." he muttered to his reflection.