The SUV skidded to a halt in front of the quiet inn, kicking up a cloud of dry grit. Ethan stepped out, his movements stiff and heavy. To any observer, he looked like a man who had survived a collapse—his clothes were shredded, and his skin was painted with a gruesome mixture of dried blood and blue, bioluminescent grime.
Helen was standing on the porch, her eyes widening as she saw him. She rushed down the steps, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch his arm.
"Etienne! Oh gods, what happened? You're covered in... is this all yours?" said Helen, her voice thick with worry.
Ethan offered her a tired, lopsided smile, patting her hand gently.
"It looks worse than it is, Helen. Most of this isn't mine. I'm just exhausted. Could you prepare a hot bath for me? I need to scrub this day off my skin," said Ethan.
"Right away, Etienne! I'll bring up some fresh towels and tea. Please, just get inside," said Helen.
