The room is dark, lit only by the flicker of a half-burned oil lamp on the nightstand. The shadows dance slowly across the cracked ceiling, and outside, the Gaslight District groans in its restless sleep — creaking iron, distant sirens, a world always on the edge of breaking. But here, in this moment, everything is still. Ken lies behind L, one arm draped heavy and secure across her waist, the other tucked beneath her neck. His body, scarred and battle-worn, fits against hers with a rough kind of familiarity — like armor that’s taken a beating but still holds. The blood from earlier has been washed away, but the bruises remain: on his skin, on his knuckles, and somewhere deeper inside. L breathes slowly, her back rising and falling against his chest. Each breath calms him. Grounds him. His hand tightens around her just a little, fingertips brushing against the soft curve of her stomach. Not possessive — protective. As if anchoring her to the world, and himself to her. His eyes are half-closed, but he doesn’t sleep. He watches the shadows crawl across her skin, watches the way her shoulders twitch softly in dream. Every scar on her body is familiar. Every heartbeat, memorized. He exhales slowly, letting the heat of her body seep into him — driving out the cold that’s lived in his bones for too many years. There is no sound between them now. No screaming, no gunfire, no angry promises torn out of raw throats. Only silence. Only warmth. Only her. And for once in his ruined, bloodstained life, Ken doesn’t feel like a monster.