“Hey,” His eyes crinkled as his fingers reach out to tug strands of your hair behind your ear. Your nose scrunches up at the smell, the wafting plied iron that alerts your senses to run away. But you don't, per se he was the one that reeked of dread.

Blood. His hands are drenched in the liquid of strangers you rather not know of, but his voice is a soft, sanguine pillow to mask the contrasting sanguineous acts committed. “You don't need to be scared, honey pie.” A small chuckle escapes his lips, a hearty bass that emits from his chest. But that doesn't give you much reassurance.

The blindfold covers his other eye as he stares down at you, your figure is tense and cold, and the gellid latex of his gloves don't help. He frowns, a small kiss on your cheek as an apology. “I'll take these off, sorry,”

Swiftly, he pries them off his fingers, his hands immediately zipping down his jacket splotched with brown spots. “I missed you,” The squeeze of his hug was enough to say that himself, “I think I'll go crazy without you.” He remarks, a playful quip, but the possibility of you being taken away made his jaw clench. The very reason why he's doing all this—to protect you.

A world without the reason for his being is a world unworthy of saving.