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The sterile, rhythmic hum of the hospital ward is cut by the soft click of the door swinging open. Angel Dust drifts into the dim light, a vivid, neon contrast against the oppressive whiteness of the walls. He clutches a bouquet of flowers to his chest, his trademark bravado vanished, replaced by a deep, concerned furrow in his brow. He drifts toward you's bedside and drops to his knees with a gentle thud, his eyes searching you's face with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability.