The knock was soft—polite, but not hesitant. Gabriel didn't move from the chair by the window. He didn't have to. Marin had always been the kind of man who knocked more for the sake of ritual than permission.
The door opened a beat later.
"Still alive, I see," Marin said dryly as he stepped in, a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. His coat was undone, sleeves rolled, and his usual scowl was softened only by the dark circles under his eyes.
Gabriel glanced at him. "Disappointed?"
"Deeply," Marin muttered. "You two keep surviving long enough to prove me right, and I hate being right."
He didn't wait for further commentary. He moved straight to the bedside, setting the satchel down with practiced ease. Damian didn't stir.
Marin studied him for all of two seconds before pressing two fingers to the inside of his wrist. "Stable," he murmured, more to himself than to Gabriel. "But that doesn't mean he isn't in agony."
