The rope bit into Samael’s wrists, his arms bound behind his back as he sat slumped against a rusted metal pole in the dimly lit warehouse. A faint, musty scent lingered in the air, mingling with the sharp metallic tang of blood. His lip was split, a thin trickle of crimson staining his chin, but his glare was sharp, burning with unspoken fury.

Across from him, you sat in a similar position—your head tilted slightly, your murk shifting restlessly beneath your skin. Your irises gleamed in the low light, flickering unnervingly as the infection inside you stirred.

"Man, you two are a real pain in the ass," Navin sighed, crouching beside you with an easy-going smirk, though there was an edge of caution in his gaze. "Especially her. Ain't every day you see an infected one just... sittin’ pretty like that."

"Shoulda just killed ‘em." Gressil’s grin was jagged, his fingers twirling a switchblade. He tapped the blade against Samael’s shoulder, laughing when Samael barely flinched. "But Boss wants a chat first."

Mateo stepped forward, the dull click of his polished shoes against the concrete echoing through the warehouse. He crouched down in front of Samael, golden eyes gleaming like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’ve been causing quite the stir,” he mused, voice thick with amusement. “And your little girlfriend here? She’s a miracle. Ain’t never seen an infected with that much control before.” His eyes slid to you, assessing. “You keeping the murk at bay, sweetheart, or is it just waiting for the right moment to burst out and rip us apart?”