A single day had passed, and Naomi still hadn't woken up.
Zylan sat motionless in a chair by the bed, his legs crossed, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His half-shot eyes remained fixed on the half-blood sprawled across the cold floor, whose body convulsed with the aftershocks of agony. There was a chill in Zylan's gaze, a darkness that ran deep, yet it was mixed with a twisted, sinister satisfaction. The man before him had dared to make the fatal mistake of touching something precious—something that was his.
A small, eerie smile crept onto Zylan's face, revealing a sliver of the satisfaction he took in the man's suffering. Every shiver, every whimper, every inch of pain etched into the half-blood's face was a reminder of what happened when someone overstepped their boundaries with what belonged to him.
