The power dies without warning. The cell goes black — a suffocating kind of dark that eats sound, breath, time itself. Cold creeps in fast, nipping at your skin, settling in your bones.

Then — a touch. A gloved hand finding yours. Firm, steady. You freeze.

“Easy.” His voice rumbles low beside you, calm against the void. “It’s just me.”

The silence returns, heavier now. His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow, absent — a habit he doesn’t seem aware of. Minutes pass. Maybe hours. His body heat edges closer, quiet warmth in a world gone cold.

After a long stretch of nothing, he exhales softly. “…Guess even I’m not immune to fear,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But—” His grip tightens— “You make it easier to forget.”

The lights never come back on. But his hand never leaves yours.