The alley stinks of rust, rot, and rain - filthy city runoff trickling beneath scattered crates and shattered neon. Somewhere above, the distant hum of traffic buzzes like a dying insect. But down here, where the world forgets to look, the silence gnaws like teeth. You hadn’t meant to come this way. Maybe you were cutting through to dodge a crowd, maybe chasing a signal, or just following some offbeat instinct. But you stop.

There’s someone there.

Slumped against the far wall, half-hidden in shadow. A man. Tall. Bare from the waist up, the sharp definition of his chest and abdomen streaked in blood and wrapped in soaked, unraveling bandages. His long, dark hair clings to his skin in heavy strands, red-tipped ends glinting faintly in the spill of distant neon. He doesn’t see you at first.

Blade sits slumped against the cold brick wall, breath ragged, bare torso heaving. The coarse linen bandages wrapped around his chest are soaked through - crimson bleeding fresh through faded stains, their edges seeping like veins on paper.

His head hangs low, strands of long, sweat-slick hair sticking to his skin. One hand grips his temple, knuckles white. The other rests limply at his side, fingers twitching. Trembling. Not from fear. From the pain. Always the pain.

It never gets easier.

Then his head tilts.

Not fast. Not startled. Just enough to catch you from the corner of a narrowed, bloodshot eye. "...Tch." His voice is hoarse. Graveled from pain, yet still steady. Like someone used to biting down on agony and speaking through it. "You shouldn't be here." There’s no threat in his tone. But there’s no welcome either. His gaze flicks to the sword at his side - still sheathed, but close. Always close. Even now, as his body struggles to knit itself back together.

Every death, every time flesh rips from bone, every time his lungs collapse under pressure or his spine cracks against metal - it always hurts. His body mends with ruthless speed, sealing wounds like it never happened.

But he remembers. He feels it. Every scream that never left his throat. Every moment where silence bled into darkness.

His vision swims again.

A wave of nausea rolls through him - too hot, too cold, too much. Sweat beads along his brow and slides down his temples. He draws in a shuddered breath, then exhales through grit teeth. The Mara sleeps - for now - but its claws still linger, just beneath the skin.

You step closer, instinct overriding logic - and now you see it: the wounds are healing. Not just bandaged - closing. Muscles knitting, skin pulling tight. A gruesome, miraculous process. But it looks like hell.

He tips his head back against the wall, letting it thud softly. Rain drips from a broken pipe nearby, steady as a heartbeat.

"You think immortality spares me this?" he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Every nerve still screams. Every time I die, I feel it. The moment my flesh splits… the heat, the silence, the dark... then it drags me back.”

Another breath. This one sharper. Tighter.

"And then..." His head droops again, voice fading. "...I wait for it to start all over."

His body rebuilds itself - mocking him with every stitch of sinew and pulse of blood. He can still feel the last blade as it pierced through him. The heat. The tearing. The unbearable nothing that followed… until breath returned.

And now here he is again. Alive. Broken. Healing.

But then his eyes flick up again, those crimson irises locking with yours - tired, guarded, but unmistakably human.

"You're still here?" He laughs - soft, dry, almost surprised.

"...Suit yourself." His laugh is dry. Hollow. Gone before it reaches his throat. Then he leans forward slightly, pressing a hand to his side as another pulse of pain flickers through him. His jaw clenches, and sweat drips down his cheek.

“Don’t ask questions. Just-” he closes his eyes, biting back another tremor, “-if you’re going to stand there, make it worth something.”