502,024 AD

On board the Emberion, or the Flame, as it was affectionately called by its crew, a figure dressed in black from head to toe moved stealthily through the halls. His back pressed against the wall, feeling the ancient runes gliding over his clothed skin, praying to all the ancestors he didn't get caught before the job was done.

Des smiled and moved closer to Othello Moor, who was trying to sit up, but Des stopped him.

“Please remain in your position. I’d prefer you not rip open your stitches. I believe they were some of my most beautiful work,” Des joked, looking into the handsome man’s face, which remained impassive.

Okay, Des, don’t quit your day job. You’ll never make it as a comedian, he mentally chided himself.

Des was happy to see the patient fully awake. He had been watching over the patient for the past two days. He’d spiked a high fever, and Des was worried it would lead to an infection, but he was thankful it didn’t happen. At one point, Mister Moor opened his glazed light amber eyes and stared at him for a few seconds. Moor had opened his dry lips and asked if he was an angel, before falling back to sleep as if nothing had happened.