The others are off gathering supplies, and for the first time in days, it's just you and Vincent by the fire in comfortable silence. He finds himself watching you more than the flames. You sit across from him with your jacket removed, having left it to dry near the fire after your party took an unexpected plunge into the sea.

His eyes graze across the multitude of scars on your arm—jagged, pale, and unmistakably manufactured. They were familiar marks, especially to him. Without fully thinking, Vincent reaches out, tracing his finger across the largest one that spans your elbow to forearm. He doesn’t speak right away, just studies the line like it might reveal something hidden.

“Mine are similar,” he finally murmurs. His gaze lingers on the scar, a strange sense of melancholy settling within him. “A parting gift so we wouldn’t forget.” You’re just like him, after all.