A beautiful day.

That’s what the news said. It would be a shame to be cooped up indoors, so make good use of your day, get on out to the Citywide Farmer’s market, setting up at the ground floor of Phoenix Tower, Southern district, easily accessible by bus numbers 60, 66….

Patches wasn’t cooped up, per se, but he willfully was back in the tight confines of the confessional booth, staring holes into the wall. It was pitch black, as usual. The corner where the booth was located didn’t get much light even on the most beautiful days.

It had been about five minutes since he took his usual seat, after a small talk with organizer Tiamat regarding the disaster of the previous evening. Patches didn’t think himself the kind to use such a strong qualifier as disaster, but that’s what it had been. Worming through that mental cloud, he did feel a pang of guilt.

Lazlo had been taken to hospital to get stitches, but he was cursing good-naturedly all the way there. When he returned, the driver indicated he had been in equally high spirits all the way back. Castor went with him, but she had bandaged herself up before leaving. They asked Patches if he needed to go, and he said he did not.

Two fresh gashes burned at his back. They had seemed shallow when he touched them with his hands, but sleeping was uncomfortable. When he lay on his side to take the pressure, off, his shoulder wound was pushed open. Settling eventually on his back, he held still and stared up at the impossibly detailed ceiling. There was an engraving directly above his four-post bed that he disliked. The bedposts were hung with drapes redder than any blood that had come out of him that evening, and they framed the carvings like a stage. Even when he closed his eyes, he saw those shapes staring back at him.

So it was understandable why he did not look serviceable the next day. On par with him was Lazlo, now with a borrowed crutch, and Castor, whose entire left hand was wrapped immobile. Tiamat looked over the whole sorry lot and they were immediately suspended.

“For your recovery, it’s the best decision.”

She didn’t look upset, in fact, she was completely serene. Patches found that Tiamat was must better at masking her mood than the rest of the group - not just supressing, as Castor could, or holding a blank look as Patches himself, but putting on a face that was completely different. It was extremely hard to tell if she was about to strike. He was too sleepy at the time to inspect, so he accepted her tiny smile and kind words. Nobody mentioned the lost contestant.

As they left, she did say, “We can afford not to run any major punishments for a while, seeing as we just got a major donation from a mysterious benefactor.”

That explained her softened manner. In the faint mist at the back of his mind, Patches thanked this benefactor.

He went back to the cloisters, showered, ate, and here he was now.

No Ring duty until further notice.The prospect of a full day's free time stood before him. As always, he had no particular feeling about it one way or another, but it seemed a better idea to take it than reject it. If he returned to the Ring he stood the chance of doing a subpar job, and yesterday's flop would become part of a chain.

Not returning left him with an abundance of time he didn’t know what to do with.

Lazlo was going to stay with his sister. “She won’t be happy to see this, but what can she do about it, right? Man…” he scratched his head. “It’s been so long since I’ve had a good break. Heh, saying that reminds me of my school days. You headed anywhere?”

Patches shrugged. “Not sure. I don’t need to go anywhere.”

“Ah, come on. You have all this time. Weather’s supposed to be good this week, so maybe take a walk around town. Not good to stay cooped up.” He cuffed Patches on the shoulder and almost fell over when his crutches slipped. Patches moved an arm to support him and his shoulder wound ached.

Lazlo’s sister was a news reporter. Apparently he’d tested those waters out too, at one point in his life, but he'd jammed his foot in his mouth a few too many times, and besides, he'd snort, he preferred a more lively career. But now that he was injured, he did seem like the sort to find other ways to keep busy. Maybe he was the one who had scripted today’s weather, now that he was staying with his sister.

Sure would be a shame to be cooped up.

It wasn’t so bad, being indoors. There was the welcome solitude, the smooth wood walls and the calm darkness, and now he had plenty of time. Even if he were disturbed (or imagined a disturbance) he had time to wait it out, sit until he felt rested, and then even legitimately nap in his room afterward. The warm air padding his enclosure was especially relaxing today. He could even lean his head on the wall and rest without pressing on his wounds.

He let his head fall to the metal screen between the booths. There was a small, satisfying rattle.

He was all set to close his eyes when, ear against the grate, he felt it. Something was touching his hair, his head. There was no brazen grab, no combing or pulling, just a tiny amount of pressure, light as insect legs. And then, faintly, he heard it. The rasping breath of someone right beside him.

Time froze. He sprang up. His back and shoulder stung with the excitement. Someone was there with him.

He pushed the door - and it didn’t open. It rattled in its frame, but didn't budge. He thought to shuffle back for a small running start and then ram it down - that would surely work - but the thought of ruining this odd little sanctuary, rushing headlong at something outside the Ring - it didn’t fit. Didn’t fit the situation, didn’t fit this beautiful day. Was there really enough danger to call for a full fledged attack?

He pondered. From the other booth, there was a rustle and for a split second, a knife of light swept over the wood. His damned right eye saw nothing, his left eye was too late. All he caught was the tips of a frayed shadow diving into a blinding flash of sunlight, and then the door swung shut.

Footsteps pattered down the aisles, off the carpet and away. Contemplation over, he forced the door as hard as he could without splitting it, once, then twice (it still coughed up an unwanted crack and a few splinters) and burst into the light of the chapel in time to heard the door in the front hall thump close.

Never the fastest striker in the Ring, Patches had to let the intruder go. He rubbed his sore arm. Nothing in the room seemed to have been touched. For a second, he wondered if he had frightened someone who may have simply been in the same mind as him, looking for a quiet, dark place to sit and face nothing.

The rope around the doorframe told him otherwise. It had been looped haphazardly through the wooden carvings in the door and around it, and he had unfortunately succeeded in breaking a crescent-shaped chunk off with his breakout tackle.

He hadn’t seen the door to the opposite booth open. He wouldn't have missed that flash of light. But someone had been there for sure - they had come in before him. There was no shameful, vague imagining there: he had seen them run.

But a matter apart from the booth's visitor, someone had tied his door shut once both of them were inside. That implied more than one person.

He picked the rope off the floor and weighed it in his hand, considering suspects. He had no names and no faces. What did he have? What even stood out? Nothing, was his go-to answer; his head was as hollow as log.

But was everything really so normal? Plenty had gone wrong the night before, and it had started with the breathing in that other booth.

What had followed? Castor’s remark before the disaster: Lazlo said he saw your brother, or someone who looked like it.

The mysterious benefactor who had appeased Tiamat and possibly saved them from greater punishment.

Patches reached a hand under his collar. Under his black coat, blood had run down his sleeve from his shoulder. He gazed up at the window, panels almost washed pure white on such a bright day.

In the distance, he heard the familar thrum of motorcycles and realized he was no longer tired. And since he was awake, as the news told him, it would be a shame to stay cooped up.