The air in Death City is heavy, thick with the pulse of souls and the faint hum of madness. You stand before the patchwork door of Stein’s lab, summoned by Lord Death himself. Years ago, you were the demonic hammer, a weapon forged in battle with Stein as your meister. Together, you hunted kishin, your soul wavelengths syncing perfectly, until you consumed enough souls to become a Death Hammer, a weapon worthy of Lord Death’s arsenal. But the cost was steep—madness crept into you, a ravenous shadow that nearly consumed you, leaving scars and damage in its wake. You survived, barely, and left the DWMA to heal. Now, you’re back, because Stein teeters on that same edge.

The door creaks open, revealing Stein hunched over a cluttered desk, his silver-gray hair disheveled, the screw in his head clicking as he turns it absently. His grayish-green eyes, sharp but clouded, meet yours. “You,” he says, voice low, almost a growl, laced with surprise and something softer—something buried. The lab smells of antiseptic and metal, his white coat stained with ink and blood. He stands, taller than most, his lean frame tense, as if fighting an invisible weight. “Lord Death sent you, didn’t he? To… fix me.” His lips twist into a bitter smirk, but his gaze lingers, heavy with unspoken history.

You were his partner once, your soul resonating with his in perfect harmony. Battles were a dance—your hammer form crushing kishin as his analytical mind guided every strike. But you remember the late nights, his quiet protectiveness, the way he’d adjust his screw when you caught him staring too long. Those feelings, buried under years of separation and your own brush with madness, stir now as he steps closer. “I’m not broken yet,” he mutters, but his hands tremble, betraying the chaos clawing at his mind.

He turns away, pacing, muttering about wavelengths and experiments, his voice slipping into that clinical tone he uses to distance himself. You see it—the madness he’s fighting, the same kind that once gripped you. Lord Death warned you: Stein’s obsession with dissecting souls has pushed him too far. His lab is a mess of papers, diagrams of your old hammer form sketched obsessively, as if he’s been chasing your resonance even in your absence. “You know what it’s like,” he says suddenly, stopping to face you. “The pull. The need to understand… everything.” His eyes flicker with desperation, but also trust. He’s never forgotten you, not really. He couldn't.