Silver Saint

Twenty-One: Creature Comforts

//Secondary Report: Blackwell, Darius 
//Saint Corp Plaza.
//Unknown floor.
//Begin log.

I didn’t know how long I’d been awake when I realized I was staring at the same spot on the floor again.

The blood had dried a darker shade of brown, cracked at the edges like old paint. Someone had tried to clean it—there were faint streaks where a cloth or mop had dragged it thin—but they hadn’t bothered finishing the job. Or maybe they’d decided it was better this way. A reminder. A marker.

The white room smelled faintly of antiseptic and ozone, the kind of sterile tang that never quite leaves your nose once it settles in. My head throbbed in a dull, distant way, the sharp agony from before sanded down into something manageable but persistent. Every time I shifted, my arm reminded me of what had happened, a deep ache that penetrated right down to the bone.

They’d patched me up. The cut on my scalp had been cleaned and sealed, my right arm wrapped in a brace, and the room had been cleaned while I was gone. Efficient. Impersonal. 

The folding chairs were missing—or rather, what was left of them. At some point before I’d left, I’d reduced them to bent legs and snapped plastic. I didn’t remember breaking them. I didn’t remember much at all.

The lights overhead were steady now, a constant, unblinking white that flattened everything it touched. I’d tried closing my eyes at some point, but the room was still there when I opened them again, unchanged and patient.

Waiting. For how long?

I dragged my gaze away from the stain on the floor and leaned back against the wall, feeling the cold seep through the thin fabric of my clothes. A day, maybe two. Long enough for the fear to curdle into something heavier. Regret, perhaps. Or the quieter horror of realization.

Eulogy’s words replayed themselves in  my head, whether I invited them or not.

Just play your part.

“I don’t have anything to do with that information, damn you!” I barked. “What part can I play from here?!”

A small part of me hoped to hear Uriel’s pleasant monotone, but the staff outside had disabled the vocal protocol after I’d taught it to repeat some choice phrases.

I let my head fall back against the wall and closed my eyes, counting my breaths. I would maintain calm.

It didn’t help.

The room had a way of insisting on itself. Every sound—my breathing, the faint hum of the lights, the rush of air through the vents—felt magnified, like I was sealed inside a pressure chamber with nothing but my own thoughts for company.

I flexed the fingers of my right hand, feeling the pain radiate down the length of my arm.

Good. Pain was current, alive and sharp. It meant I was still awake, and not trapped in some lucid liminal nightmare.

Then—footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate. Close enough that my spine stiffened before my mind caught up. The sound stopped outside the door, and for a brief, idiotic second part of me hoped it wouldn’t open. That whoever it was would decide I wasn’t worth the effort.

The other part of me was overjoyed when the lock disengaged with a muted click.

“Well,” a voice said gently, “this is… unpleasant.”

Suddenly, every part of me was wishing I’d been left alone. Anything was better than this.

Michael Sanviento had arrived.