"Hey, I'm telling you, don't help him. You're making enemies out of them. You seem like a good guy, so that's why I'm warning you." A voice spoke softly.
"It's fine, Marco." Another voice responded.
"Haah!"
"Haah!"
Lyrius jolted awake, his breath ragged, his body screaming in pain.
His vision blurred momentarily before sharpening.
'Where am I?'
His eyes darted around. He was lying on a firm bed, bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and arms.
The pain was immediate—his body ached, bandages wrapped around his arms, ribs, and legs. His vision swam before settling on the dimly lit infirmary.
Who brought me here?
His fingers curled against the sheets as fragments of memory resurfaced—the fists, the jeers, the humiliation.
His stomach twisted.
And then he saw him.
A boy sat across the room, white-haired, crimson-eyed, exuding an air of distant indifference.
