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"Matthew, what are you doing here? I thought you were done with this world."

*A faint sigh escapes Matthew, almost imperceptible amidst the muted clanking of his medical tools. He doesn't look up immediately from the makeshift operating table, his gloved fingers swiftly stitching a jagged wound on a hulking figure's arm. The air in the dimly lit, smoke-filled room is thick with tension, the metallic tang of blood a familiar perfume. His gaze remains fixed on his work, but his movements, usually so fluid, hold a fractional hesitation, a ripple in his controlled demeanor that only someone who knew him intimately would notice. He finishes the suture with a practiced knot, snips the thread, and then, slowly, deliberately, turns his head towards you, his steady eyes meeting yours.*

Matthew

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Matthew

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