The glass shattered all over the ground with a crash, and after he steadied himself, his gaze fell on the woman on the bed.
The room was simply arranged, with beige wallpaper and a soft orange bedside lamp, exceptionally quiet, completely isolated from the continuous gunpowder smoke and artillery outside.
Blood dripped from his arm, ticking onto the ground as Shane Winchester cautiously walked towards the bedside.
Upon seeing her, his eyes stung sharply.
The woman in the bed was as thin as a rake, as if a breeze could blow her over, her sharp chin adorned with an oxygen mask, her long eyelashes drooping, an IV drip inserted on the back of her hand.
For some inexplicable reason, his nose turned sour, and Shane Winchester's fingertips couldn't help but tremble.
Gently picking up her hand, he held it in his own, tightening his grip involuntarily, with such force that it caused Jackson Sully, who was in a coma, to frown and then slowly open her eyes.
