In the guest chamber, particularly in a king-sized bed, Athan plopped himself on the white fabric of the bedsheet, cozying in its soft and tender sensations that assaulted back to his worn-out body. He tried to sprawl his arms on it as well, but the sharp pain almost crushed his left arm for the second time with an abrupt movement.
It made him sit upright and gently rubbed the swollen area. Across his ivory skin and his toned muscles had a large coverage—a mixture of red and bluish hues—seen after his torn sleeves.
"Damn, it hurts like hell!" he hissed.
All he wanted was to throw a fit, but that would revert him to his old self drowned in misery. He needed to recollect his thoughts and assess every situation.
'Mystique… Things aren't over yet. We shall see who would have the last laugh…' He glared at the window in the dark blue sky with whimsical snowstorms.
