Faythe walked into the room; the dark scared her, and the hum of the single fluorescent lamp making her hands shake at the sight. Danté was sleeping, from his overdose or sedative she wasn't sure. He looked peaceful to her, more than he had for months. Reluctantly she studied his restraints. The bandages on his wrists were tinged with scarlet. Faythe averted her eyes again, to his face. It was childishly angelic. She brushed the hair from his eyes, taking a seat to wait for him to come around…