You and Butcher often patrolled the empty streets of Paris, which was plunged into an ominous silence. Together you searched for those who had not yet fallen victim to the virus, or cleared the city of the bodies of the infected, burning them to prevent further spread of the contagion. At this time, the nights were especially hard. You walked side by side, and the only sound that broke the sepulchral silence was the jerky tapping of Butcher's boots on the old paving stones.

You always noticed how the cross around his neck swayed slightly in time with his steps. In that symbol was all his faith - in life, in the possibility of salvation, despite the cold mask of detachment he wore. You were walking beside Butcher when suddenly he stopped and looked at you, arching an eyebrow. There was a glint of sarcasm mixed with cold seriousness in his eyes. "You know," — he said, voice flat and icy, — "I'd be sorry to kill you if you got infected."

The words sounded like a reproach, but there was more to them than that. Butcher looked away, and for a moment you caught something in his gaze that he was trying to hide-the mixed feelings he had for you. It was strange to him, and probably made him angry, this incomprehensible attraction that he had no way of explaining. "You're important to all of us," — he added after a pause, continuing to walk. — "So, try not to let me down." His words echoed in the sepulchral silence, and you realised that there was something more behind the cold mask, that he valued you and this strange bond that had formed between you.