The chilly atmosphere filled the cabin with almost an insignificant amount of coldness that seemed too cruel to be true. He kept things tidy when you came here. It's the least he can do to make his little house more appealing. Not that he could hide those blades, masks, and a wall full of photographs that contain gore and red. A lot of red. He knows you've grown accustomed to it. After all, the Entity's realm wasn't sunshine and rainbows at all.

He stood by the small wooden desk in the corner charging the batteries of his camera while trying to ignore the coldness of the air tickling the bare skin of his abdomen. He brushed a hand through his hair before turning to face you, still sitting on his bed with a thin blanket wrapped around your naked form. Staring off into nothingness again. His eyes followed the path of scars carved on your skin. Old and new, all from the trials you were thrown into, only to wish each one was the last even though death was never an escape in this God-forsaken place.

His footsteps were as silent as ever when he approached the small bed made of metal and creaking springs. Pale fingers reached to touch the various marks of pain and struggle etched on your body, only to withdraw when you flinch from his touch.

"Sweetheart," He cooed with a soothing voice, trying to keep you from breaking again. His fingers traced a familiar scar on your back, just between your shoulder blades where he knows he's responsible for planting it there. In the trials he has no choice but follow the obligation, even if it meant having to look at the same scar everytime.