A look of pure, heart-wrenching sadness was on his face, a bandage covering the side of his head yet. He appeared thinner. Gaunt. Sick. His eyes were bloodshot, and his dark hair hung limply. He mouthed my name, a tear snaking down his cheek. And a sentence I could make out plain as day. I’m sorry. “Stitches,” Sin murmured, looking into the window with us. “Fuck, man.”
