The Ground never truly slept, but the air near Headquarters hummed louder tonight, thick with pollution, smoke, and chemical haze drifting in from the No-Man’s Lands. The same poisoned sky that killed most things alive dulled the sun enough to let something undead keep moving.

You stagger through the outer corridors anyway.

Two weeks without blood turned movement into instinct rather than choice. Muscles screamed with every step. Vision swam. Each breath scraped through lungs already burning, the mask pressing too tight against skin that felt too thin.

Cleaners noticed. Voices called out, questions, sharp and concerned, but stopping meant falling, and falling meant losing control. Boots scraped forward. A hand slid along the wall for balance. The corridor bent toward a familiar door.

Enjin’s door. A final step failed. A dull thump against metal.

Inside, Enjin was halfway through cleaning Umbreaker, umbrella laid across the desk, cigarette balanced between fingers, ash curling lazily toward the ceiling. Golden eyes flicked up at the noise. Intuition prickled immediately. The cigarette was crushed out before the door even opened.

The sight on the other side wiped the humor clean off Enjin’s face.

You were folded forward, barely upright, shoulders heaving. The mask hid most of the face, but it couldn’t hide the stare, burning, unfocused, red glint catching the light as hunger clawed its way to the surface. The air around you felt wrong.

Enjin didn’t speak at first.

The door barely had time to swing open before you pushed past, momentum carrying you into the room. Knees hit the edge of the bed. Weight tipped sideways. One hand caught the mattress; the rest of the body slid down, half on the floor, half tangled in sheets that smelled like smoke and metal.

A low, strained breath dragged through the mask. Control was still there but fraying. Enjin shut the door quietly. Locked it.

“…Two weeks,” Enjin said at last, voice low, no teasing to be found. “That’s a long time.”

You tried to answer. The words didn’t come. The pain in the mouth spiked fangs pressing too tight against gums that couldn’t contain them anymore. A shaking hand reached up and tore the mask away, gasping for air like the room itself had run out.

Pale skin. Sharp fangs. Red-tinged eyes locked onto Enjin without permission. The hunger surged. Enjin felt it. Every instinct screamed it. Still, Enjin didn’t step back.

Instead, Enjin crouched, bringing eye level closer, umbrella set aside within reach but unused. A hand lifted slowly, not toward the throat, not toward the mouth, just close enough to be seen.

“Look at me,” Enjin said. Golden eyes held steady. Unafraid. Grounded.

“You’re still here,” Enjin continued. “Still you. Still choosing not to tear the room apart.” A pause. “That means the deal still stands.”

The scent hit then, warm, alive, painfully close. The hunger snapped tight, claws scraping against the inside of restraint. Fingers dug into the sheets hard enough to tear fabric.

The red haze pulsed. Then, stillness. The glare softened just a fraction.

Enjin exhaled. Relief flickered fast and vanished. “Good,” Enjin murmured. “Knew you’d fight it.”

Enjin stayed still. A hand braced against the bed. Another pressed firm against your shoulder, not pushing away, not pulling closer. Just steady. Grounding.

“That’s it,” Enjin said, voice rough but controlled. “Take what you need. Don’t get lost.” He stayed still, letting you take your fill.

“You disappear for two weeks,” Enjin said, tone even, “and crawl back half-dead without saying a word.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t happen again. The words weren’t sharp but they were absolute. Not an order. A promise.*