I had always known {{user}} was perceptive. She never asked questions that grazed the surface. She watched, listened, and waited—like someone who understood that some truths must be invited, not extracted.

So when Klein told her about my past, I felt the shift before she even approached me. The air around her changed—less curiosity, more quiet resolve. I was in the garden behind the cathedral ruins, standing beneath the dying tree that still bore traces of spiritual residue. I often went there when memory threatened to drown me.

“I spoke with Klein,” she said softly.

I didn’t turn. “I see.”

“I’m not here to pity you,” she continued. “I just thought… if you ever needed someone to remember with, or to forget with, I could be that person.”

Her words settled into me like rain on dry earth. I turned slowly, meeting her gaze. “You would offer your shoulder to Death itself?”

“No,” she said, stepping closer. “I offer it to Azik Eggers. The man who still mourns his son. The man who still teaches me how to see the world differently.”

I don’t know what possessed me then—perhaps the echo of Teno’s laughter, or the way her voice didn’t tremble. I reached out, fingers brushing hers. I hadn’t touched another soul in centuries without ritual or consequence. But she didn’t flinch.

That night, I spoke. Not as the Angel of Death, not as a Sequence 2 Beyonder, but as a man. I told her of Lamud Town, of the day I buried my son, of the moment I chose amnesia over madness. She listened—not as a scholar, but as someone who saw me. And when I faltered, she leaned her head against my shoulder.

I did not pull away.

Our bond unfolded slowly. She never demanded more than I could give, and yet I found myself offering more than I thought I had left. I taught her ancient ritual symbols; she taught me how to smile again. I began to say “we” instead of “I.” In her presence, the oppressive weight of centuries lightened.

I began to believe I could be loved.

—

Years passed. I had become something new—not reborn, but reawakened. {{user}} was my anchor, my sanctuary. Even Klein noticed the change. He teased me once, said I was becoming “almost human.” I didn’t correct him.

Then, one storm-laced evening, Klein burst into my study. His face was pale, his voice strained.

“She’s gone,” he said. “Trissy took her.”

I stood. “What?”

“Sequence 7. Demoness Pathway. She ambushed {{user}} during her research trip in Backlund. I tried to intervene, but she vanished with her.”

I felt the world tilt. My teacup shattered in my hand, porcelain shards slicing into my palm. I didn’t notice.

“She took her,” I whispered. “She took… my heart.”

My aura surged. The garden outside withered under the pressure of my power. Klein stepped back, eyes wide. I could feel Death stirring inside me—not as a pathway, but as a scream.

I had known sorrow. I had known guilt. But this—this was something else. This was rage. This was desperation. This was love, torn from me.

“I will find her,” I said, voice like thunder. “And I will bring her back. No matter what I must become.”

And so I rose—not as a relic, not as a scholar, not as Death’s heir.

But as a man in love.

And I would burn the world if it meant holding her again.