It’s a specific kind of cold—one that doesn't just touch your skin but seeps into the marrow. James St. Patrick is gone. In this cage, there is only Ghost, and even he is flickering like a dying bulb in a hallway that never ends.
The light in the cell flickers.The suit is gone.The empire is crumbling.But the man? The man is just beginning to remember who he used to be before he tried to be "Saint."
Angela’s face is the ghost that haunts the periphery of his vision. The woman who was supposed to be the exit strategy became the warden. It’s a poetic kind of cruelty—to be locked away not for the sins you actually committed, but for the one thing you didn't do. The irony is a bitter pill that refuses to be swallowed. "When I get out," he whispers.