The cell was cold, the stone walls damp with the kind of chill that sank into your bones. You hadn’t slept—not really. Not with bruises throbbing under your skin, not with the weight of betrayal pressing against your ribs.

Then came the sound of the lock shifting. Smooth. Quiet. Intentional.

You didn’t move, barely breathed, just listened as the door creaked open. Boots. Heavy. Measured. But then they stopped. A sharp inhale.

“…Bloody hell.”

You knew that voice.

Slowly, you turned your head—and there he was.

Hazard.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost. You probably did too.

His gaze raked over you, taking in every wound, every bruise. His jaw clenched, something dark flickering behind his eyes before he knelt down.

“This ain’t real,” you muttered. “You’re not real.”

A hand, rough and calloused, gripped your chin, tilting your face up. His touch was warm, solid. Real.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again either, lass.” His voice was low, hoarse. Regret? Guilt? Something else? “Guess neither of us know when to stay dead.”