When he slept, his world was different from reality.
Ever since his death, the noirette was put in to an asylum, convinced that the hands of the ones inside his body wished to tear him apart. The boy was alone in the darkness of his mind with pale skin and bloodshot eyes; his breath ragged and formed jagged white parachutes in the air before falling. He had gone blind; his wish to not see the world had finally been granted.
At night, he heard him. The white knight would beckon towards him with his hands outstretched, but he was nothing but a form of golden flecks.
Every night, it was the same dream, over and over. His voice was soft and warming, like the voice of a merciful angel. He could sense that smile through his voice, and he beckoned to him once more like the angel of Death.
He takes his hand.
Leo never woke up.