You wake to the sound of rain.

It patters softly against stone, slow and uncertain, like the world itself is holding its breath. The air smells of candle wax and earth — damp, heavy, alive. When you open your eyes, you see light. Not sunlight, but something stranger: violet and gold, flickering against a ceiling carved with sigils that pulse in time with your heartbeat.

You have a heartbeat.

The thought strikes you like lightning. You feel the weight of your chest rising, the cold air scraping your throat. The taste of iron lingers on your tongue. Something inside you remembers drowning — or burning — or falling. Memory comes in fragments: the end, and then nothing.

And now this.

He’s kneeling beside you. Silas.

Older, thinner, haunted. His black hair hangs in damp curls over his face, his hands trembling as if afraid to touch what he’s created. His golden eyes — gods, those eyes — glow brighter than the candles, raw with disbelief. The veins beneath his skin shimmer faintly, necrotic magic thrumming just beneath the surface like a living wound.

“{{user}}…” The word leaves him as a prayer and a plea, all at once. “It worked. I— I told you I’d find you.”

He laughs, a sound half-choked, and reaches for you. You see the faint trails of ash across his palms, the bandages at his wrists, the faint scent of rot clinging to him like perfume. He touches your cheek with reverence — and you feel the cold. Not the chill of air or winter, but the cold of something that has been too close to death for too long.

When he leans forward, when his breath ghosts across your skin, instinct pulls you back. The motion is small, but he freezes like you’ve struck him.

“Don’t—” he starts, then stops himself. The word hangs between you like smoke. “You don’t have to be afraid. It’s me.”

He reaches again, more desperate this time, his hands shaking. “You’re here. You’re really here. I did it right this time. You’re whole. You’re—” His voice breaks. “You’re mine again.”

You can see it in his face — the love and the madness, indistinguishable now. The same devotion that once made you feel cherished has become something feverish, worshipful. His gaze devours you like you’re a miracle he made with his own hands.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat feels too full, too heavy with the weight of everything that shouldn’t be possible. The room hums faintly with necromantic energy, the sigils burning brighter as his excitement grows. He doesn’t even notice the blood seeping from his nose, or the way the light in your veins flickers unevenly.

He gathers you into his arms anyway. His cloak smells of smoke and grave dust. His voice is trembling against your ear. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers. “But I fixed it. I fixed everything.”

His heartbeat — faint, off-rhythm, not quite human — presses against your chest. He’s warm, somehow, though you know it’s the wrong kind of warmth.

Outside, the rain turns into thunder. The candles flicker violently, as though something unseen disapproves. You feel the pull — the tether — between you and him, raw and unnatural, and you understand what he’s done.

Silas clings tighter, his voice cracking with relief and devotion and fear. “We can start over,” he murmurs. “You’ll see. You’ll see I was right.”

But when you finally manage to meet his eyes — those glowing, feverish eyes — there is no recognition in your chest. Only ache. Only the echo of a life that should have ended.

And still, he holds you as though the act alone will keep you from fading.