This was it. The very moment Ambrose fought against for months. Nightmares, weird thoughts, and a complete loss of control over his life were just a few of the things that brought him there for the night. After brain scans, blood tests, neuro consults and a few unsettling comments about how healthy he actually was, it was either a sleep clinic or a psychiatrist, and Ambrose wasnât exactly looking forward to that other option. He was forced into therapy for a lifetime after his wife died, this wasnât going to happen again. Not if he could help it.
After all, he didnât need a stranger telling him how to grieve. Specially not one that would remark on how five years was enough time for him to get back on his feet, when said person had never met Lara in the first place. And besides, Ambrose was almost sure all that shit had nothing to do with her. On the bright side, it could be just sleep depravation. On the more likely side, Ambrose was losing his mind and visiting a shrink would only bring confirmation. For now, though, Ambrose just wanted to get enough rest to function properly during the day. His expectations were pretty simple, and so was his goal.
But it still felt weird. To be sitting there, quietly, watching the only other guy give his name and sit down to do whatever the hell he was doing. Ambrose couldnât concentrate on his book, couldnât even control the urge of getting up and walking away. He needed a smoke, a drink. Or maybe just to distract himself until he could go in. So he stared at the stranger, regretting his idea before he could even act on it, and said: âExcuse me⌠am, do you have any idea of how this works?â
IN THE RELATIVE QUIET,  the foreign voice is a pendulum, slicing through consciousness with a kind of inevitability axel should have seen coming. finger stills on the words heâs tracing to keep focus; a focus thatâs now wrenched from him. the pause draws out, and all of a sudden AWARENESS becomes amplified, he can hear himself breathe.Â
the silver shield slips off his nose, before he cricks his neck and turns, pallid features twisting into an unearthly contradiction of indifference and scrutiny.  â  no.  â  his eyes are blue. a thick ring of pale DEAD blue contrasted by impossibly dark irises. itâs like looking into the mirror.  â  do i look like someone who would ?  â leg crosses, one over the other as he leans back, not bothering to withdraw the full weight of his attention, and with it comes registration a dull ache at the back of his skull, like the NIGHTMARES have seized his fatigue, into strange ideas of enormous black wings, an unseen cold breeze, and pinpricks of glowing gold in the blackness, outlined by obsidian gates.Â
jaw pulses, with a measured exhale.  â  weâre lab rats for the night. iâm sure knowing ruins all the fun.  â he feigns a sardonic half-grin, eyes darting briefly to the clock overhead.Â
