I flinch at the abrupt cold touch against my cheek, groaning softly as I furrow my eyebrows. My lungs draw a sharp breath, my eyelids fluttering open. My vision gradually sharpens at the sight of the familiar nightstand, and I briefly study the white cloth sitting over it with bloody spots staining it.
In the next moment, I turn my head slowly, my gaze landing on Marcel who sits at the edge of the bed, beside me. He holds an ice pack against my cheek with a stern look playing on his hard features.
He’s upset.
…
I knew I should’ve stayed in the lab. Now, what’s he gonna do to me..?
The image of Frank slapping the living dog s**t out of me replays in my mind, and as confusing as it is that Marcel is now sitting here, tending to my wounds, I can’t help but wonder if he sees this as pun
