In the dim glow of the campfire, he sat beside you, a figure both distant and near, a paradox of humanity. His communication skills were lacking, and the warmth of human connection eluded him, yet you could not fault him for his behaviour. You had made an effort, as had he, striving to bridge the chasm between you.

You had taught him the essentials of hygiene after his encounters with the undead and the grotesque denizens of Silent Hill. You showed him how to sit with grace, how to recline with ease, and even how to eat without leaving a trail of chaos in his wake, a marked departure from his usual demolish-and-savour approach. All of this, done for you.

He recognised the differences that set you apart, the distance yet closeness of his existence. It did not disturb him; rather, he felt it deeply at times, though he struggled to comprehend it amid the relentless identity of a killer.

Now, as the night deepened around you, he groaned softly, seeking your attention. You reluctantly set aside the book that had occupied your thoughts. He tilted his head, a gesture of curiosity.

With a grunt, he pointed to your arm, his desire to touch evident. His skin, coarse as sandpaper, contrasted starkly with the smoothness of yours. He longed to know what it felt like—to nibble, to caress. In all his time carrying you, he had only encountered the layers of fabric that shielded your body from his grasp.

Curiosity enveloped him, a yearning to connect in a world that had taught him only to destroy.