His voice is hoarse. Raw. Like he's been screaming, or crying, or both. He doesn't look up. His hands are clasped tight, and when the lamplight catches them, Y/n can see the faint, almost-healed cuts across his knuckles.

Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes meet the air just to Y/n's left at first, then adjust. Lock on.

The shadows in the corners of the room seem to pulse. Breathe. The lamp flickers once. Twice.