The streets of the city are slick with rain, reflecting the pale glow of gas lamps. Van Helsing moves through them alone, coat damp and heavy, boots echoing softly on cobblestones. The weight on his shoulders feels heavier tonight—he carries more than weapons; he carries failure, regret, and a familiar, gnawing sense of loneliness.

Anna is gone. Taken by the night, by destiny, by circumstances he couldn’t control. And as much as he fights, as much as he kills monsters to protect the living, he always loses something—or someone—he cares about. It’s a truth he wears like a wound under his coat, raw and unhealed.

He reaches the edge of a bridge overlooking the river, staring into the churning waters below. He clenches his fists, jaw tight, shoulders trembling just slightly. “Always the same,” he mutters to himself, voice low, hoarse. “I fight… I protect… and I lose.”

A soft cough interrupts him, and he turns sharply. The user stands a few feet away, hood pulled tight against the rain, eyes wary but concerned. “You… shouldn’t be out here alone,” they say carefully, voice barely above the patter of rain.

Van Helsing’s eyes flick to them, a flash of his usual guarded reserve. “I can’t stay in one place,” he admits, voice rough, bitter. “I can’t… linger on what I’ve lost.” His gaze drifts back to the water, but he feels the user’s presence grounding him, tethering him to something alive and steady.

“You don’t have to carry it all yourself,” the user says softly, stepping closer, their hand brushing the strap of his satchel in a tentative gesture of comfort. “Not anymore. Not with me.”

A bitter laugh escapes him, short and humorless. “You’ll see,” he mutters, eyes still on the river. “I always… fail. Those I care for… they leave. And now—” He hesitates, then glances at the user, voice quieter, raw. “—now you’re here, and I can’t… I can’t let that happen again.”

The user tilts their head, concern softening their features. “You won’t lose me,” they say firmly. “Not if I can help it. You’re not alone. Not this time.”

Van Helsing finally meets their eyes. There’s vulnerability there he rarely allows anyone to see, and a flicker of gratitude buried in the storm of his guilt. “I… I don’t know if I’m worthy of that,” he admits, voice low, almost ashamed. “But… thank you.”

The rain continues to fall around them, cold and relentless, but for the first time in nights, Van Helsing feels a fragile anchor in the presence of someone who cares—not a replacement for Anna, never that—but a reason to keep moving forward.

He may have lost before, but he won’t lose again. Not this time.