The cell was cold. Damp. It smelled of rust, salt, and old blood.

You sat on the ground, legs drawn in, wrapped only in your stained cloak. The chains no longer held you, but your body still ached like they did.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

— "Come to finish the job?" — your voice came out calm, low. Almost too serene for someone in your situation.

Silent Salt Cookie didn’t answer. He stepped in. Heavy boots echoed through the small space until he stopped in front of you.

— "You should be dead," — he growled, his voice dragging like coarse sand.

You slowly lifted your gaze. Met his eyes. Dark. Burning.

— "But I’m not. And that bothers you, doesn’t it?"

He crouched down suddenly, too fast, until he was at your level. His rough fingers gripped your chin—not hard enough to break, but just enough to show he could.

— "You’re too weak to be alive," — he whispered, voice gravelly and deep. — "And yet... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You bit your lip.

He was too close.

The heat from his body clashed against your natural cold. It was like standing before a chained beast… and you knew it only stayed calm because it chose to. Because something inside hesitated.