The room was white. Uncomfortably white.
Walls. Ceiling. Even the couch he was seated on—too soft, like it might swallow him whole if he let his guard down.
The room reeked of sterile calm. The kind of peace you only find in padded walls and dangerous minds.
There were only a few things in the room besides the couches— a glass table in the center, a pitcher of untouched water, and a large circular clock ticking just loud enough to be annoying. One of those 'modern' designs with no numbers. Just ticks.
Besides him sat Zephyr, slouched slightly, his aura clearing showing he was here in body, not in spirit. And his eyes had proven that point. Detached. Far away. Like he wasn't in the room at all.
Noctis had seen that look once before.
On the soliders who had given up on life, soldiers who had concluded that fighting a minute longer in the war was torture, they had that look moment before commiting suicide. And on their corpse.
