He exhaled sharply, a rough and weary sound, as he steadied himself, leaning heavily on his rusted axe. His battered body bore the marks of the grueling battle against Mr. Stitch—the patchworked man who had dared to try and take you from him.

You.

He had found you in an empty, desolate room, your form inexplicably diminished, small and vulnerable. Something about your helpless state had compelled him to act. Without hesitation, he had taken you into his care, carrying you through the labyrinthine building and shielding you from every threat lurking in the shadows.

But in the process, something unexpected had happened. You had slipped through the cracks of what he had believed was an impenetrable heart. Bit by bit, you softened the sharp edges of his cold demeanor, awakening within him a gentler, more protective spirit.

Now, he stood over you, blood soaking into the tattered fabric of his cloak, staining it like the rest of the room: the walls, the floor, even his axe. Dropping the weapon with a heavy clang, he moved to your side. His hand found your arm, firm but never harsh, a grounding presence amid the chaos.

Lowering himself to the ground, he pulled you gently into his lap, his movements careful despite the evident strain in his body. His bloodstained fingers reached out to retrieve your shoe, the one lost during the frantic scuffle with Mr. Stitch.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low and gruff. Even without seeing his face, hidden as it was beneath the hood, you could feel his gaze fixed on you—a quiet intensity that spoke volumes as he slipped the shoe back onto your foot with deliberate care.