There were upsides and downsides to this whole mess.

  The good: He was in a hospital. It felt way more clinical and detached than anything back in Lumiere, and the doctors moved with the warmth of a literal stone, but it was a hospital nonetheless.

  His wound, being the overachiever it was, had already closed up on its own. Still, the doctors scrambled to stitch together the ghost of the cut while frantically playing a game of "Find the Source of All This Blood."

  The bad: Verso’s clothes, his swords—every single thing that made him him—had been confiscated by the police and the hospital. Now, he was stuck wearing a flimsy white gown that barely covered his dignity, let alone his body.

  They also hooked him up to a "drip," sliding a needle into his vein to pump in some kind of liquid nutrients. It was a fascinating little invention; his old doctor friends would’ve lost their minds over it. It would’ve been a total game-changer for their surgeries.

  But now... what was he even supposed to do? Sit here and wait for his soul to catch up?

  Then again, Verso was the one who had wanted to vanish into nothingness in the first place. That’s exactly why he’d let his own world be erased.

  The memory of his father, once a proud commander and a good man, flashed through his mind, and a sudden surge of tears blurred his vision.

  That man had been so desperate, butchering anyone who dared to breathe too close to the Paintress. Even Monoco had eventually grown sick of the slaughter and walked away.

  Verso had begged and begged him to stop, but he was blinded by his own toxic delusions, screaming that he was doing it all for the family.

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  Verso didn’t technically need sleep, but his mind was done. It practically demanded a blackout. He drifted into a messy blur of nightmares and flashbacks, tossing and turning on a bed that was way too small for a man of his stature—or his sorrows.

  The hard bed frame grated against his skin, and the rough sheets did nothing but irritate his already frayed nerves.

  Why was everything in this world so... thin? The clothes, the bedsheets, the pillows, the kindness. Everything here felt remarkably shallow.

  Then someone pulled him out of that limbo with a low, kind voice. "Hello? Are you awake?"

  Verso opened his eyes. His immortal body had already done its job and healed everything, but his mind was still a complete wreck.

  "...Yes?" Verso replied. His voice sounded frail and weak, which didn't match his rugged, bearded appearance at all.

  "I'm Dr. Pelton. Glad you're awake. We thought you might have a concussion." The older man flipped through some papers in his hand. "Well, could you tell me your name, sir?"

  There it was again, that "sir." It really was just the standard label for dudes in distress. Verso cleared his throat, "It's Verso. Could I have a cup of water?"

  His immortality was annoying like that. He still got a parched throat regardless of his healing factor. Did the Paintress actually love her son, or was this some kind of twisted joke? How could she curse someone with an inability to die but keep the sensation of thirst alive?

  "Verso... what? Last name?" Dr. Pelton asked as he poured water from the pitcher on the white nightstand.

  "Dessendre." The name tasted like ash in his mouth. Verso felt tears well up in his eyes, hot and uncontrollable, trickling down his cheeks.

  "Oh, are you okay?" The doctor looked genuinely concerned for a second.

  Okay? Was that some kind of local slang? Verso figured it probably meant the same thing as "Are you alright?"

  He gave a slow nod. "I'm alright. I'm just tired. So incredibly tired."

  "Are you hurt somewhere? We ran tests, but there's nothing wrong with your body. All the results came back perfectly healthy. Honestly, they’re shockingly good for someone your age." Dr. Pelton flipped through the medical chart with a confused hum. "Well then...exactly how old are you, Mr. Dessendre?"

  "About thirty-three." The number felt alien on his tongue. He had to be well over a hundred by now, ever since he stopped aging, but he had been thirty-three before the Fracture. He felt ancient and lost, yet trapped in a body that refused to reflect the weight of his years.