It was like the car accident that had happened years ago all over again: Jeremiah Mercer should have died then like he should have died now. The quiet tones and whisper of magic were prevalent in the hospital, though they purposely faded away once one actually got close to where the Chief of Police was laying on a hospital bed in a private room.
There was no IV hook up, though they did have a heart monitor on him, and he looked agitated. The spike in his heart rate was a combination of pain and anger. The anger was not so obvious, his expression deadpan, but the pain was.
Jeremiah Mercer was the embodiment of a living bruise.
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