The room is dim, lit only by the faint green and blue monitors tracing steady, rhythmic lines across digital screens.
My heart aches as I step closer, my boots squeaking softly against the polished linoleum floor.
Cain Morgan looks impossibly smaller than he did in life. The towering, forceful Vice President of the Night Howlers – the man who used to handle Knox’s explosive, violent outbursts with an iron composure – is swallowed up by white hospital blankets and crisp cotton sheets.
Bandages wrap tightly around his chest and neck, and dark purple, yellowing bruising stains his hollow cheeks and sunken eye sockets. His hands, usually hard, steady, and wrapped around the handlebars of his beloved bike, are bound in thick white plaster casts, resting limp and useless at his sides.
Locke
