Louis's senses returned like a flood, but everything felt different. The world around him no longer looked the same.
The sterile white walls of the sickbay pulsed faintly, as though they breathed. He could hear whispers—not from people in the room, but from something beyond, like distant voices carried on a celestial wind. The air itself felt charged, heavy with meaning. Every movement, every shadow, every heartbeat had a depth he hadn't noticed before.
His hands trembled as he pushed himself up. That was when he saw them—the wounds.
His palms still bled, though the blood did not drip. It hovered in place, forming intricate symbols that pulsed with a soft golden light. His feet throbbed with a dull ache, but the pain felt distant, almost reverent. And his chest—he could still feel the searing heat where the final wound had burned through his heart.
