No memories sung a lullaby for Lucius's unconscious mind; it was only welcomed with the quietude of darkness. With the passage of time and the care of a medic, his consciousness escaped the grip of the abyss it fell into.

And so, Lucius peacefully awakened. His eyelids separated and he took in the sight of a marvelously-decorated hospital interior. He was alone. He gazed upon his hands; stitches etched into them, bandages wrapped around them. The rest of his body was the same. He had no thoughts yet, for he was still recovering from prolonged slumber.

Lucius rose out of his blood-stained bed and idly took a few steps. It was then he remembered what he'd done. He fell to his knees with labored breathing. He killed someone. He killed another human being. The memory looped on replay. The gory bisection. The manic laughter. He wanted to empty the contents of his stomach on the marble floor, but the floor only reflected his face– something he couldn't stand to look at as his self-worth shattered.

His mind shifted to Cain, the architect of his anguish. He spilled human blood, yet he couldn't spill demon blood. He was pushed to his limit physically, and he was still too weak. He had to be saved. How could he ever take pride in anything after that? In his eyes were fire lit with a new fuel; anger. Anger towards himself.

Lucius's bandaged fist balled up and it repeatedly struck the marble floor as he let out screams of fury. His fist beat the ground with such force that its wrappings tore apart and his knuckles were bloodied.

The hospital doors creaked open; the medic who treated Lucius peeked her head inside and–once she saw Lucius breaking down–shoved the doors open and ran at him.

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"Hey, hey! What's wrong?"

"I..." was the only thing he could muster.

"Why'd you do that? Give me your hand," she responded while crouching in front of him.

"It'll stain yours," he replied distantly.

"Don't care. Give it."

And so Lucius's bloodied hand yielded to hers, to which she wrapped back up again. His thoughts still tormented him, so he sought solace in words.

"I killed someone," he confessed. "How can I ever be forgiven?"

The medic clasped his hand in-between hers before responding:

"That... that's a heavy question. I don't know. What I can tell you is that people have died in my care before. I've just had to live with it. I can only hope they forgave me from wherever their soul went, you know?"

"Yeah. But, I killed him. I'd be dead if I didn't. How could I hope to be a better person after what I've done?"

"Hey," she replied with a soothing tone, "the fact you feel guilty about it means you've got a good heart, so that's a good start. You were in a kill-or-be-killed situation. Anyone that gives a damn about living would've done what you did."

Her words relaxed Lucius. Her insight was profound, so his guilt was alleviated for now. His breath returned to normal. She released her hold on his bandaged hand and rose to her feet.

"So don't worry about it, alright?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Of course. Name's Vera. What about you?"

"Lucius."

Vera shot the demon hunter a smile, and he fired one back; something he rarely did.

"Sorry about the blood," he suddenly mentioned whilst gazing at the ground– upon his blood-tainted reflection. He tolerated looking at himself once again.

"It's no problem, dude. Now, c'mon. Your boys are gathering outside," Vera responded while making her way to the hospital doors.

"Why?"

She turned towards Lucius in dramatic fashion.

"Because Michael's awake."