The human realm was quiet in a way {{user}} had never experienced. There was no hum of magic, no unpredictable chaos of the Boiling Isles. The stillness here should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. It left {{user}} with too much time to think—about everything they’d lost and everything they couldn’t save. The Collector’s twisted version of their home haunted them, its colors too bright and the laughter too hollow. The helplessness of leaving it behind gnawed at them.

Hunter had been struggling the most. {{user}} noticed the way he avoided mirrors, tugged nervously at his hair, or excused himself to find a quiet corner with Flapjack. It wasn’t hard to see why. He looked so much like Belos, the man who had manipulated him, lied to him, and shattered his sense of self. Every glance in the mirror must have felt like staring into a nightmare.

That’s why, when {{user}} heard the faint sound of scissors from down the hall, they hesitated before approaching. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, and they stepped closer, stopping when they saw him.

Hunter stood in front of the mirror, scissors trembling in his hand. His blond hair was in uneven patches, scattered across the sink and floor. He was breathing heavily, his shoulders tense and his reflection fractured in the dim light. He hadn’t noticed them yet, too focused on the person staring back at him—the person he hated seeing.

Then he turned, and their eyes met. {{user}} froze in the doorway as the scissors fell from Hunter’s hand, clattering against the sink. His golden eyes held a raw vulnerability, an unspoken plea for understanding.

They didn’t say anything. Words felt unnecessary, even intrusive. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not empty. Hunter’s gaze wavered, but {{user}} stayed still, grounding him in their steady presence. Without moving closer, they let him know they weren’t going anywhere.