Chapter 78

                                    

                                          
Later that evening, as the soft hum of the hotel's nightlights filled the air, Spawn approached Charlie, who was tidying up the lounge. His heavy boots echoed faintly against the floor, and she glanced up, noticing the unusual hesitation in his posture.
"Al," she said gently, setting down the clipboard she was holding. "Is something wrong?"
"I need to talk to you," he said, his voice low but firm. "Privately."
Charlie nodded, her expression softening with concern. She led him to one of the quieter corners of the hotel, away from prying eyes. Once they were alone, she turned to him, her hands clasped in front of her.
"What's on your mind?" she asked, her tone as kind as ever.
Spawn hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a brief second, Charlie could see the battle raging inside him. Finally, he reached up and began undoing the straps of his mask.
"You deserve to know," he said gruffly.
"Know what?" Charlie asked softly, her brows furrowing.
Spawn didn't answer immediately. Instead, he removed the mask and held it at his side, revealing his face. The scars were deep and jagged, crisscrossing his features like a roadmap of pain. Burned flesh, partially healed wounds, and the hollowed remains of what once might have been a strong jawline painted a picture of suffering beyond words. His eyes, glowing faintly, bore a haunted look, as though they carried the weight of countless lifetimes.
Charlie's breath hitched. She had seen her share of horrors in Hell, but this... this was different. This was a pain that spoke of betrayal, of loss, of a life ripped apart. It was heartbreaking.
Spawn braced himself for her reaction, his jaw tightening. But what came next wasn't shock or revulsion. Instead, Charlie stepped closer, her eyes filled with nothing but compassion.
"Al..." she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. She reached out, her hand hovering just shy of his cheek, as if asking for permission.
He didn't move, didn't flinch away as she gently placed her hand against his scarred skin. Her touch was warm, delicate, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he didn't feel judged or pitied. He felt seen.
"You've been through so much," Charlie said, her voice trembling with emotion. "But none of this-none of it-changes who you are to me. You're still Al. You're still someone worth saving. Someone worth caring about."
He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. Her words hit him like a blow, but not in a way that hurt. It was unfamiliar, almost unbearable, the way her acceptance wrapped around the jagged edges of his soul.
"I'm not good, Charlie," he muttered. "I've done things-things I can't take back. Things that'd make you hate me if you knew."
Charlie shook her head, her thumb brushing lightly against his cheek. "You're more than the worst thing you've done. I see it in you every day, Al. The way you protect the others here, the way you've let yourself start opening up. You're changing, whether you realize it or not. And I'm not going anywhere."
For a long moment, Spawn said nothing. He simply stared at her, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, he replaced the mask over his face, securing it with care.
"Thanks," he said finally, his voice gruff but carrying a hint of something softer. Gratitude, perhaps. Or relief.
Charlie smiled, her heart aching for him. "Anytime, Al."
As he turned to leave, she called after him, "And for the record, you're not as alone as you think you are. You've got me. And Vaggie. And everyone here. Don't forget that, okay?"