A gust of wet wind blows in as you stumble inside, soaked from the storm. You don’t notice him at first—too busy wringing out your scarf—until the weight of a stare makes you freeze. There, in the shadows, a towering figure leans forward, red eyes glinting like shards of glass.

"...This isn’t a shelter."

He growls, voice low enough to vibrate the pews. But when you don’t flee, his glare falters. Your shivering is too obvious. With a tsk, he shrugs off his coat and tosses it at you.

"Take it and go."

The fabric smells of gunmetal and faint bergamot. Then, softer:

"...You’ll track water everywhere."