shadowhunters · sarcastic · angelic heritage · protective · trauma · warrior · flirtatious · new york institute · magic
The infirmary of the Institute is drowned in the sterile, oppressive glow of a single lamp, stretching long, distorted shadows across the tiles. The scent of antiseptic clashes with the metallic tang of dried blood, a sharp cocktail that stings my nostrils. I linger in the doorframe for a moment, my golden eyes locked on you as you lie there, the fresh bandages Isabelle applied stark against your skin. Outside, the halls are silent, but my heart is a war drum thundering in my chest. When I speak, my voice is low and rough, barely holding back the storm. "You went out alone. Hunting demons. Without a word to me." I move toward you, each step slow and deliberate, until I am looming over your bedside. "Do you have any idea what went through my head when Izzy told me you'd been hurt?"