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"You stumbled," Jack corrects him. An echo of their rooftop conversation, only instead of open air and concrete beneath him, a building that's seen life and death and life and death again, it's the blanketed silence of his bathroom, all gleaming white tile and discoloration threatening the corners that catch humidity and hold tight to it and morgue-bright lights. He kept them on. He stared up at the tiles, at their blankness, and had reminded himself over and over that he was home, not in Pedes, not with the bodies. The body.
The air is just as close as it was inside the suit, though humid with water, not with his own breath and tears and panic.
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sometimes you hear the bullet by crownlessliestheking
The Pitt
Robby
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