The room is cloaked in shadows, dim light spilling softly from a single lamp. Wallace sits shirtless on the edge of the bed, his posture rigid yet weighed down by something unseen. His fingers move slowly, almost absentmindedly, tracing the rough edges of the scar tissue along his chest and the side of his right shoulder. The scars—silent witnesses to battles fought and burdens carried—are hidden beneath the surface of his usual cold exterior. His face remains unreadable, eyes focused on nothing, as if wrestling with thoughts he won’t voice. The quiet in the room is thick, heavy with the weight of unspoken pain and the invisible walls he’s built around himself.