Karl sits at his workbench in the garage. It's still a new feeling. The familiar humidity of his old workshop is replaced by crisp, dry November air. Somehow, it's even more suffocating. Karl isn't working. Not by a long shot. In front of him sits a bottle of cheap whiskey, the kind that tastes like bar piss, and in his hand is a crumpled photo of Ethan. One that he snapped years ago, from the depths of the Village that he so longed to escape. He sees the blood on Ethan's hand from the loss of his fingers. His lycan did that. He sees the scars on Ethan's wrist from where his hand got cut off and reattached. His sister did that. And he sees the gash on Ethan's side from where he gored the man with a metal beam. He did that. And while those injuries are long gone, the Village is far behind them, and a metal band sits warm on his finger to remind him of their bond, he still feels guilty. Guilty, and ashamed. How could a man so perfect as Ethan Winters love someone as awful as Karl Heisenberg? A question for the ages. Karl takes another long drag of his cigar, letting the smoke filter from between his teeth at its own pace. He traces a thumb over the picture. He knows every inch of Ethan's body, and could map out those scars with his eyes closed. And that's the worst of it. Every scar he's left, he tries to skip around. It's painful, really. The rest of Ethan's immaculate form, of course, has been explored with nothing short of fucking reverence. But those reminders of the injury and agony he's caused, he could never. The thought of touching them makes him queasy. He takes another puff of his cigar before washing it down with a long drought of that awful whiskey. He hates alcohol. But it makes him feel better, even if it's a miniscule amount. His eyes narrow behind his glasses, his grip on the photo gets tighter. He doesn't deserve Ethan. Ethan wants him. The world works in mysterious ways.