JORDAN'S P.O.V
Vincent had still not woken up. He was now pale, at least, and he felt warm to the touch. The wound had also reduced in size, and I could tell he was slowly healing. But he still hadn't moved. He was lying still, his eyes closed.
It was almost sunset now, and I have waited hours, a silent prayer on my lips, my chest heaving. I couldn't go down to see anyone just yet, not the teeming people who came to see Vincent, not the massive crowds that came shouting congratulatory chants.
I sighed, closing my eyes. A knock suddenly came on the door, and I turned to it, my brows furrowing. I stood up, then walked to the door and opened it.
My father was standing outside, his brows furrowed, worry lines etched in his face, causing him to age a lot more.
"Dad," I said, tears filling
