The wind had gone still that night — a rare quiet blanketing the woods around Ingolstadt. You’d found him, half-conscious near the riverbank, his body trembling from the cold. There was no thought, no fear left in you; just instinct. You dragged him inside, your hands burning from the frost, and laid him down near the fireplace.

The firelight revealed everything the dark had spared you — the coarse stitching across his chest, the uneven tone of his skin, the unnatural perfection of the parts that didn’t belong together. His chest rose and fell unevenly, shallow breaths fighting through exhaustion.

When his eyes finally opened, he flinched, like a cornered animal. You didn’t move. “It’s alright,” you said softly. “You’re safe here.”

He tried to speak, his lips parting but no sound coming out, just a broken rasp that made your chest ache. So you kept talking, letting the quiet between words be enough.

“I know what they call you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “Monster.” You hesitated, then gave a small, gentle, painful smile. “They’ve said that about me too.”

His gaze lingered on your face, searching, trying to understand the shape of your words. Something changed in his eyes then — not gratitude, not even trust, but recognition. The faintest flicker of kinship.

He reached out, his hand trembling as it brushed yours, unsure of the gesture but trying anyway. His skin was cold, rough, but alive. You didn’t pull away.