When Curtis and Ismael entered the vestibule of the chapel, they halted in the middle. Their eyes glossed over the pews, catching Conan weeping like a proud mother, Morro's gleaming eyes with anticipation, Isaiah's broad and distinct shoulders. Their eyes lingered longer on Joaquin, who was standing near the altar while slapping himself.
Ismael, who was weak and in such a pathetic state, narrowed his eyes to see clearer. His mangled lips were drawn into a thin line.
Joaquin's face was already beet red from anger and from all the slapping. Blood was already dripping from his mouth, but he continued slapping himself without a word of complaint.
"How embarrassing..." came out a murmur, staring at Joaquin's pathetic figure and his continuous slaps.
