All eyes in the infirmary snapped toward the other bed.
Flora Dawnveil lay on the other bed—her once-pristine crimson uniform reduced to bloodied tatters. Bandages wrapped her torso, one arm, and part of her thigh, but they did little to hide the damage Ethan had inflicted. Her blazer was gone; only the shredded remains of her white blouse clung to her shoulders, the front torn wide open. A black lace bra strained heroically to contain her obscene breasts—massive, pale, heaving with every breath, rose-vine tattoos curling around the deep valley of her cleavage like possessive lovers. Her pink hairs were disheveled, rosebud horns cracked. Yet somehow—she still looked dangerously seductive.
She lifted her uninjured hand and gave a lazy, sultry wave.
"Heyyy there… babe…" Her voice was hoarse but dripping honey. "You made quite a mess of me."
Ethan blinked—only now realizing she was there.
He smirked—tired but sharp.
"Hi."
