Chapter Text
April 6th
He had never set foot in a hospital before. Not really, anyway.
A minor exaggeration, perhaps. He'd visited wounded friends, sure, a handful of times over the decades. This was supposed to be the same. But oh, boy... this time, he didn't have the faintest idea why he was even here.
Dante, the legendary demon hunter, had never imagined a day like this. Never imagined hospitals harbored places like this. He'd never needed to stay in one. His half-demon constitution was more than capable of shrugging off wounds that would fell a lesser creature.
St. Jude's, Morrison had said—oncology ward.
Dante had never heard of it. Never needed to. His knowledge of hospitals began and ended at two doors: the chaotic flurry of the ER, and the quiet tedium of the inpatient ward. This was something else entirely.
The further he walked, the worse it got.
For a man who made his living on the fringes of the world, Sparda's youngest son had never been bothered by his own appearance. Yet here, in this unnaturally still and sterile space, he felt a flicker of awkwardness. Everyone was wrapped up in their own quiet battles, their own private aches. The city was still clawing its way back from the Qliphoth's devastation. And yet, their pain-filled eyes swiveled towards him, staring as if he'd sprouted a second head.
Or maybe,
a smug voice whispered in the back of his mind,
It's just my devastating good looks.
Yeah, that had to be it. Dante was undeniably dashing, and he knew it. Still on the cusp of forty-four, he was tall and broad-shouldered, his frame honed by decades of battle. And lately, those once-sad, weary blue eyes of his held a light they'd never known. A light that had been absent for a very long time. Ever since Vergil had come home, Dante's eyes had been transformed, two clear, sunlit oceans where before there had only been a tired, lonely gray.
Or maybe it was the coat. His favorite red leather, expensive and battered, was a declaration of war in a place that demanded quiet surrender. His dirty boots tapped an unwelcome rhythm on the sterile linoleum, their buckles chiming a small, metallic rebellion against the building's deadly, monotone hum. Whatever held their stares, he owned it. He met their eyes with his own and kept walking, confidence his only armor.
At the information desk, a hushed inquiry led him to the third floor.
The oncology ward, he discovered, was a labyrinth of grief disguised as medical necessity. He had to pass through the clinic's waiting area, and there, he stumbled upon a new world. A kind of limbo, suspended between life and its opposite. He had spent his entire existence hunting demons that tore flesh and broke bones. But here, he witnessed a different kind of battle. Humans fighting a demon he couldn't see, couldn't touch, couldn't kill. A demon that consumed them slowly, agonizingly, from the inside out.
As he moved past the waiting patients-some gaunt, some bearing the pale mask of chemo, others simply staring into the middle distance-the word finally crashed down on him. It was everywhere. On posters pleading for donations. On flyers detailing support groups. On brochures fanned out across tables, their cheerful colors a cruel joke. The word was a curse, and this place was its kingdom.
"Cancer... no way..."
The words escaped him in a breath, barely a whisper. Dante had known pain and grief since he was eight, and had worn them like a second skin for decades. But here, in this fluorescent-lit purgatory, the half-demon watched those old familiars take on a new and terrible shape. Men, women, children, all slumped in identical plastic chairs, waiting for their names to be called. They looked like prisoners awaiting execution, each lost in their own private hell. He could read them now, the language of suffering written plainly on their bodies. The masked ones, their defenses shattered. The hairless ones, hollow-eyed and weary, bearing the invisible scars of chemical warfare waged within their own cells.
For the first time in his almost immortal life, Dante felt his towering frame shrink. Those sad, hollow eyes bore into him, and something inside his chest cracked.
Then his gaze fell on the children. Weak. Hairless. So terribly small in those adult-sized chairs.
And suddenly, he wasn't in a hospital anymore. He was in Nero's living room, three bright faces grinning up at him. Julio. Kyle. Carlo. His nephew's boys. His boys now, if he was honest about it. The ones who called him Uncle Dante and climbed into his lap without warning, who tugged at his coat and asked about his swords and made him feel, for the first time in forever, like he belonged somewhere.
"Jesus Christ..."
The whisper died in the sterile air.
He hadn't meant to get close to them, at first. Had kept his distance, convinced he'd only bring chaos to their peaceful lives. But Vergil's return had changed everything. Nero and Kyrie had insisted, had pulled them both into the warm orbit of their family. And those three boys-God, they'd wormed their way into his bruised heart so fast he never stood a chance.
Now, standing here, he couldn't stop seeing their faces on the sick children before him. Couldn't stop imagining Julio's laugh going silent, Kyle's curious eyes going dull, Carlo's tiny frame wasting away in a hospital bed.
The thought hit him like a fist to the gut.
He couldn't breathe.
He didn't linger. Couldn't. He asked for the oncology inpatient ward and followed the directions blindly, his boots eating up the sterile corridor. The smell hit him next-ozone and antiseptics, sharp and chemical, clawing at his sensitive nose. Beneath it all, something deeper. Colder. The ward smelled like death. He'd know that scent anywhere.
The nurse's station was a brightly lit island in a sea of pale linoleum. Two women stood behind it, and Dante made straight for them, gratitude quickening his step.
"Excuse me, ma'am..."
He leaned against the cold counter, all six-foot-something of him, and waited. The middle-aged nurse glanced up, gave him a once-over that lasted less than a second, and returned to her paperwork.
"Yes?" The word was a door slammed in his face.
Dante didn't flinch. He'd been dealing with worse attitudes for decades. Besides, he could hardly blame her. A place like this? It didn't just tire a person out. It hollowed them.
"Here to see someone. Visiting hours still open?"
"Four o'clock." She didn't look up. "You've got a couple of hours. Name?"
"Uh... Shirley. Miss Shirley. She was brought in yesterday."
"Relative?"
The question caught him off guard. "Hmm? Oh, no. Just a friend. We used to-" He hesitated. "Work together."
That got her attention. Her eyes lifted, sharp with suspicion. She was probably trying to reconcile the word "architect" with the man standing before her-the worn leather coat, the scuffed boots, the empty gun holsters visible underneath the red leather. None of it added up.
Dante smiled. Genuine. Easy. The kind of smile that had disarmed demons and humans alike for forty years.
She looked away first.
This time, Dante studied her. The slump in her shoulders. The shadows under her eyes. The way she leaned ever so slightly against the counter, snatching moments of rest where she could. Standing on your feet all day? That ground a person down. Even someone like him knew that.
His gaze drifted to the ID pinned to her chest. Head Nurse Thompson.
Ah. Not just any nurse, then. The one in charge. No wonder she carried the weight of the whole damn ward on her shoulders.
"Can I ask you something, Nurse Thompson?"
The words came before he could stop them.
"Go on."
"What's wrong with her? Miss Shirley, I mean."
The look she gave him could've cut glass. Surprise first, then anger, hot and quick. Dante actually flinched. Actually, took a step back from the counter, hands half-rising like she was the one with a sword and not him.
Pathetic, he thought. But damn, that woman could glare.
"Don't you know where you are?" Her voice was sharp enough to draw blood. "This is oncology, sir. Cancer patients. And you just said you were friends. Colleagues. How do you not know?"
She had a point. A painful one.
Friends? That was pushing it. He and Shirley had worked together for a hot minute, and then... nothing. Months of nothing. Until Morrison's call yesterday.
Dante had picked up, expecting a job. A fat paycheck. Something to kill.
Instead, he got the old broker's gravelly voice, still echoing in his head.
"Hey. Saw the girl in town today. She looked like hell, my friend. Dead on her feet. Said she's checking into St. Jude's. Oncology ward. Made me promise not to tell you."
But Dante wasn't impressed. At all!
"She's still around?! Ugh... I'd rather have a paying gig right now. Okay, why are you telling me this, Morrison? What am I supposed to do about this oh-so-important information?" Dante rolled his eyes, and Vergil scoffed from where he was sitting in the office. Both brothers were annoyed and bewildered.
"Look, I know she's a bit... much for you. But go see her anyway. Humor me," Morrison said.
Then the line went dead.
So no, Dante didn't know what was going on.
He swallowed hard and tried to find his footing. "Look. It was a short gig, alright? We worked together... Scratch that. I worked for her, and then I didn't see her. Yesterday, a friend called and said she was here. Didn't say why."
Nurse Thompson's eyes narrowed. That particular side-eye-head tilted, lips thin, could make anyone squirm.
"Believe me, I'm not here to cause trouble."
A beat of silence. Then:
"The young lady has cancer, sir."
The words landed like a fist to the gut.
"W-what..."
"She was diagnosed two days ago. We're keeping her for monitoring and tests." The nurse's voice had softened, just a little. "Her mental state is a bit fragile right now. But sure. You can go see her. Right corridor, room 12."
The hallway was its own kind of purgatory. Patients in beds behind half-open doors. Some laughing with visitors. Some staring at the ceiling. Others lingered in the corridor, wheelchairs, walkers, IV stands trailing behind them like metal leashes. A tiny Black girl, maybe four years old, peeked through a crack in her door. Bald as a newborn. A mask covered her mouth, but her eyes -huge and brown- were smiling at him. She waved, shy and quick.
Dante's heart was already a wreck, but he smiled back. Waved. Even made a small, silly face to draw a sweet muffled giggle out of her.
He walked past the other rooms one by one.
10
11
Room 12.
Through the small window, Dante saw her.
The rest of the world went away. Sounds and voices faded to static. The fluorescent lights dimmed. The antiseptic smell disappeared. Everything-everything-narrowed to that thin figure in the bed. The girl who'd been so strong a few months ago. So annoyingly full of life.
Dante couldn't look away from the window. Couldn't process.
His hand hovered over the handle like it was made of molten metal.
What the hell am I even doing here?
The question screamed in his skull, louder than before. What was he supposed to say? How would she look at him-after that day? Six months. Six months since he'd seen her, and he'd told himself it was fine. Better this way. She'd get over it. He'd forget about it.
Except he hadn't forgotten. Not really.
Miss Mona Shirley had hired him once. One job. And that was all it took for the poor girl to fall hard. She was shy, modest, composed, proud, even. But God, she was terrible at hiding her feelings. She was a good girl. Never rude. Never flirty. Never once openly showed affection. But the signs were there, written in every averted gaze, every blush that crept up her cheeks when he spoke, every heartbeat he could hear stuttering in her chest whenever he stood too close.
She'd always looked at him like he hung the moon, which was flattering and ego-boosting for about five minutes and exhausting after that.
Dante had found it entertaining at first. A sweet, well-behaved girl with a crush. Cute. Intense. Annoying...
But that's all it was-entertainment. She wasn't his type. At all! Pretty in her own adorable way, sure. But sexy? Not really.
She was the kind of rich girl who'd never been told no to; probably why she got so worked up over nothing. Plus, he hated clingy women. He wasn't born yesterday. She was getting close. Closer than he'd appreciate.
And the age gap? He and his friends laughed about it. It didn't help that she was a bit shorter than Lady, too!
"Little girl," they'd called her behind her back. A sensitive, rich, spoiled twenty-nine-year-old child. Those were the words tossed around when she wasn't around.
Dante would grumble sometimes. Tell Lady and Trish to knock it off. That she was a good kid, like Nero. But little by little, he'd joined in. They'd gotten careless. Reckless. And eventually-
Enough.
He knocked.
Silence. Then: "Come in."
Dante closed his eyes. Breathed in. Counted to three. Pushed the door open.
He stood there, eyes squeezed shut, braced for impact. Another shoe, maybe. A hospital sandal this time. Something was thrown at his head.
Nothing.
Cautiously, he blinked.
Two deep brown oceans met his gaze, swimming with pain, framed by those impossibly long lashes and dark, curved brows he remembered. The same hollow look he'd seen in every waiting room patient. But beneath it, in these eyes, something flickered.
Wrath. Still burning.
Still doing it, he noticed. Looking at me like that.
Mona stood by the window. Weak. Slumped. The shiny dark hair she'd always pinned up so elegantly now fell loose around her shoulders like a funeral veil. Pale lips. Dry. Cheeks that had once been soft and round now slightly sunken. Dark circles beneath eyes that used to sparkle with life.
And that baggy hospital gown instead of her usual chic, stylish clothes.
The afternoon sun poured through the window behind her, setting her silhouette ablaze with gold. A halo of light surrounded her head, while her face and body remained in shadow.
Dante stood before her, bathed in light.
The poetry of it wasn't lost on him.
The door clicked shut behind him.
"Mr. Dante. You. Here...?"
She stood at the window with her back to him, a silhouette burned gold by the afternoon sun. Same voice. Maybe thinner around the edges, but still hers; the voice that had once stumbled over his name like it was something precious.
"I told Mr. Morrison not to tell you."
The words were ice. Sharp. Formal. Exactly the tone she'd always used when she was pretending not to care.
Dante smiled despite himself. "Yeah. He mentioned that."
"Then why are you here?"
Good question.
He'd asked himself the same thing the whole way over. But he didn't owe her anything! He only did the job he got hired for. Did he owe her for that? A job that lasted around three days, seven months ago? For the way she'd looked at him? For the way he'd-
He pushed the thought away.
"Morrison said you were here. Thought I'd check in." He shrugged. "See how you're doing."
At that, she turned. Just enough to show him her profile, sharp against the window's glow.
"I'm dying, Mr. Dante."
The words landed like a punch he hadn't braced for.
"That's... that's quite the opener."
"Is it?" Her voice stayed flat. "I thought you preferred directness. No games. Isn't that what you told me? When you explained why you weren't interested?"
Ouch.
Dante shifted his weight. "I remember that conversation differently."
"I'm sure you do." She turned back to the window. "You remember yourself being very reasonable. Very kind, even. Letting me down easy. The gentleman demon hunter."
The words gentleman demon hunter dripped with something that might've been bitterness. Might've been rage.
"Mona-"
"I have cancer." She said it like she was reading a grocery list. "Cervical. Advanced. Spread to places it shouldn't have spread. They caught it late because I was too busy being dramatic to notice my body was falling apart."
The word landed. Dramatic. His word. From that evening.
He remembered it now-fragments, mostly. Lady laughing. Trish's smirk. Vergil's raised eyebrow and scowl. His own frisky, drunk giggling. Mona's face-what did her face look like? He'd tried not to look.
She's being dramatic, he'd said. She'll meet a good guy soon and will laugh at her own stupidity.
Then the sneaker had connected with his mouth.
"I didn't mean-"
"I know what you meant." She cut him off. "You meant I was a child. A spoiled, rich child with a crush on an older man. Cute, but embarrassing. Something to laugh about with your friends."
Silence.
Dante stared at her back, at the dark hair spilling over thin shoulders, at the hands gripping the windowsill like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
She's not wrong.
That was the worst part.
"You're not-" He stopped. Started over. "That's not all you were."
"Oh?" She turned now, fully, and finally, he saw her eyes clearly. Red-rimmed. Exhausted. But underneath that, something harder. Something that hadn't been there before. "What else was I, Mr. Dante? Tell me. Because from where I'm standing, you and your friends spent a lot of time deciding who I was for me, and I'd love to hear the final verdict."
He had nothing. No easy smile, no quick comeback, no deflection. Just the weight of her stare and the echo of laughter he'd participated in.
She was just so... much, he'd told Lady. Always looking at me like that. Following me around. It's uncomfortable.
And Lady had laughed. The great Dante! brought low by a rich girl with a crush.
They'd all laughed.
He pulled the chair from beside the bed, plastic, uncomfortable, perfect for this kind of hell, and sat down. Perhaps a change of subject wouldn't hurt.
"You never told me about your parents."
She went still.
"You said you worked at your father's office. Helped him keep it running. Where are they now? If you're dying, as you say, shouldn't your dear mommy and daddy be here, spoiling you?"
Silence stretched between them like a wound.
"They're dead." Her whisper was barely audible. "Five years ago. I lost them in a car accident. I've been handling everything on my own since."
Smooth, Dante. Real smooth. Lead with the dead parents.
"I didn't know," he said finally. Quietly. "About your parents. About any of it."
Mona's expression flickered-surprise, maybe, that he'd admit to knowing so little.
"No," she agreed. "You didn't. None of you did. Because you never asked."
Well, that was awkward. Also hard to grasp. Annoyance and awkwardness aside, now he was a bit concerned. Whatever happened between them, she was still young. She needed help if her illness was so serious.
And by looking around the room, the son of Sparda could easily guess she had no visitors, and no caretaker either!
He tried again. "But... what about relatives?! You can't stay here, like this! You should call them-"
"No."
The word was a door slamming shut.
"Why? You can't do this alone."
"I can't do it with them either." Her voice cracked on the last word, and when she once more turned fully, Dante saw why. Her eyes were wet. Bright with the kind of pain that didn't know where to go. "After my parents died... my father's family... they're not-" She stopped. Swallowed. "And my mother's side... I don't..."
Dante shook his head before he could stop himself. "At least you got family." He heard how it sounded the second it left his mouth. Bitter. Small. Wrong.
Mona went still. Not the stillness of calm—the stillness of a struck bell that had not yet begun to ring. Her wet eyes cleared, just for a moment, the grief retreating behind something harder. Colder. She looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time.
"I have relatives," she said, her voice thin but steady. "That's not the same thing."
She held his gaze for one breath, two. Daring him to argue. Daring him to take it back.
Then her expression crumbled, and the tears came fresh, and Dante had never hated himself more.
Damn it.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to find the right words in a language he'd never been fluent in. "I'm just saying-if the treatment's gonna be rough, you shouldn't face it alone. You've got to trust someone."
"I can't trust anyone!"
The words exploded out of her, raw and desperate. Dante reared back like she'd hit him again.
Anyone?
Then how-how had she looked at him like he was the sun? How had she blushed and stammered and tried so hard to get close? That wasn't trust? That wasn't something real?
Or maybe you're just an idiot,
A voice whispered in the back of his mind.
Maybe a crush on an old washed-up hunter ain't the same as letting someone see you fall apart.
Before he could answer, Mona moved.
She took a few trembling steps away from the window. Towards him. And Dante forgot how to breathe.
The terror in her eyes wasn't the kind you could hide. It was the kind that stripped you bare, peeled back every layer of pride and composure until all that was left was a girl staring into an abyss that was staring back.
"Two choices." Her voice shook. "They gave me two choices. And I'm too scared to pick either one." She was counting on her fingers like a child. "Chemo. Heavy chemo. But they said at this stage it's... It's useless. So that's one. And the second is..."
"The second what?" Dante was on the edge of his seat now. "Mona. What's the second?"
She didn't answer.
Her hands flew to her stomach. She doubled over, and the sound that came out of her wasn't crying-it was something worse. Something broken. Her whole body shook with it, wracked by sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than grief.
Dante sat frozen.
The great Dante. Son of Sparda. Legendary demon hunter. He'd faced down hell itself and never flinched. But this-this girl falling apart in front of a window-this left him powerless.
And then he saw it.
The way she clutched her abdomen. The slight swell beneath the hospital gown. The bandages peek out at the edges.
Pain. She's been standing here in pain this whole time.
He thought of her slumped shoulders. The way she'd favored one side. The way she'd held herself, like movement itself, was an enemy.
And you didn't notice. You didn't notice any of it.
Dante opened his mouth to say something-anything-but the words wouldn't come. He had no idea what to do.
The door slammed open so hard Dante thought it might come off its hinges.
Nurse Thompson stormed in like a general entering a battlefield, her eyes on him with murderous intent. "What did you DO?!"
Dante's hands went up automatically-second time today, new record-and he shook his head so fast his silver hair whipped around. "Nothing! I swear! She was talking about her situation, and then she just-"
But Thompson was already past him, arms wrapping around Mona like a mother shielding a child from a storm. Her voice shifted from attack mode to something impossibly tender.
"Come on, darling. Come here." She guided Mona toward the bed, moving carefully-too carefully. Like every step costs something. "You shouldn't be standing. Your wounds-"
Mona sobbed against her shoulder, words tumbling out in fragments Dante couldn't catch.
Nurse Thompson glanced back at him, now out of his seat and standing by the door. "You're staying or going? She needs rest."
Dante opened his mouth-
"He's leaving." Mona's voice was quiet, now reduced to small hiccups and sniffles. Final. She didn't look at him. "Aren't you, Mr. Dante?"
The words hung in the air.
Nurse Thompson's eyes moved between them, reading something Dante couldn't see. She said nothing.
Dante nodded once and pushed off the wall to leave.
When he looked back to briefly see them again, Mona was saying something to the nurse, but Dante couldn't hear what. Her mouth moved, her hands gestured, and then she was crying. Again.
The same way she'd cried that day six months ago, like the world had ended because someone was mean to her.
Some things never change, he thought.
Then Nurse Thompson looked up, and for just a second, Dante saw something in her eyes he didn't understand. Not frustration. Not pity.
Grief.
The door closed. Dante sat in his plastic chair, telling himself it was nothing. She'd be fine. She was always fine.
Other patients watched him with open curiosity. The little Black girl-bald, masked, eyes like saucers-had crept out of her room and was staring at him from down the hall. When he caught her looking, she didn't look away.
Kids. No filters.
He managed a weak smile. She didn't smile back this time, just kept watching, like she was trying to figure out what kind of creature had landed in her world.
Dante didn't immediately leave. He sat on one of those uncomfortable chairs lined up in the corridor to think, and after a minute of processing what just happened, a soft sound made him look up.
The little Black girl from earlier was standing in front of him now. IV pole stood beside her, watching him with those big brown eyes. Her mask had slipped down to her chin, revealing a small, curious smile.
"Hi," she whispered. Her tiny and adorable voice immediately melted his heart.
Dante blinked. "Uh. Hi."
"You look sad."
Out of the mouths of babes.
"Just thinking," he said.
"'Bout what?"
He considered this. "About... hmm... stuff."
"Are you a prince?"
That caught him off guard. Bewildered, he let out a deep, hearty laugh.
"Nope! But I'm a strong knight!" He winked and showed off his biceps, humoring her innocent fantasy.
"Cool! I'm Gracie."
"I'm Dante. Nice to meet you, Gracie."
"Dante! Like Miguel's dog in Coco?"
It took a will of iron to suppress a groan and eye roll. Kids these days! Gone were the days of the great Divine Comedy. Even Nero's boys joked about it! Called his name with a Spanish accent and demanded he take them to see the land of the dead or something.
"Yeah..." He sighed. "Yes, sweetheart. Like Miguel's dog..."
"Hmm. I like your hair, though. Gotta go. Momma's gonna come back soon. Bye bye!" Then she waved tiny fingers, wiggling, and disappeared back into her room.
Welp. That was so random! Dante thought to himself.
Right after Gracie left, the head nurse walked out of room 12, closed the door behind her, and let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of the entire hospital. She sagged into the chair beside Dante, one hand pressed to her forehead.
When she noticed him, her entire demeanor softened.
"Oh. You're still here."
Not angry now. Just tired. A different woman entirely from the one who'd nearly attacked him earlier.
Dante nodded toward the door. "Is she asleep?"
Thompson pulled at her sleeves, adjusting them absently. "Sedated. Poor girl." A pause. "Yesterday, during her CT scan... she was like a ghost. Just going through the motions. Not really there. The biopsy was brutal, took forever, and hurt like hell. It's painful to watch her go through it with no one to hold her hand."
Silence settled between them. Then: "She came in alone yesterday. Checked herself in. No family, no friends. Just her and a duffel bag."
"She said..." Dante's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "She can't trust anyone. Not after losing her parents."
Nurse Thompson nodded slowly, her expression softening into something ancient and knowing.
"She has family," Dante said. "Lots of them. Wealthy people, both sides."
"Mm." The nurse's tone was noncommittal. "She told you that?"
"Well-no. But I know. She mentioned," He stopped. What had Mona actually told him? She'd said she worked at her father's office. That was it. Everything else-the wealthy family, the connections, the crowded Sunday dinners-he'd assumed. Because she dressed well. Because she had that polished, private-school way of speaking. Because it was easier to slot her into a box than to ask.
"Sometimes," Nurse Thompson said quietly, "people with the biggest families are the most alone, darling. And losing loving and supportive parents, even in adulthood, breaks something inside. You'd rather stay alone than get hurt again."
She stood. Brushed off her uniform. Looked down at him with something that might've been pity.
"Visiting hours start again at eight tomorrow morning. If you're planning to come back." A pause. "She won't have anyone else, as far as I know." She stood up with a grunt and walked away toward the nurse's station.
Dante sat there for a long time.
Long enough for the light through the windows to shift from gold to orange to gray. Long enough for the corridor to empty, visitors heading home, patients retreating to their rooms. Long enough to hear the little girl's mother softly singing somewhere down the hall.
He had no reason to stay.
Slowly, heavily, he rose to his feet. Walked to the door of room 12. Pressed his palm flat against the small window and looked inside.
Mona was a still shape beneath white sheets. Her dark hair spilled across the pillow like ink in water, and her face was turned away.
He turned from the door, from the room. His boots echoed down the corridor, past the staring patients, past the little bald girl with the big brown eyes, past the nurse's station where Nurse Thompson was already buried in paperwork.
The hospital doors slid open.
Cold evening air hit his face.
He stepped through them without looking back. The doors closed behind him with a soft thud.
And walked home.