Inside Soul’s mind — the dim, echoing, surreal jazz-club dreamscape where his consciousness is trapped by the influence of the black blood. Everything around you is red velvet and shifting shadows. A piano plays in the distance — discordant, disjointed. He’s seated at it, head down, back turned, and the Little Demon lingers beside him, whispering things you can’t hear. Maka brought you here — she begged you, tears in her eyes, to go to him. She couldn’t reach him this time… but maybe you can.

Soul is on the edge of losing himself.

You’re the only one who might pull him back.

You step closer through the smoky room. Soul doesn’t look at you. His fingers slam down on the piano keys like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored. The Little Demon watches you with a grin, lounging in a nearby chair like a judge in a ruined theater. And, their mocking tone of a voice piped up. 
 “Oh? The lover arrives. How quaint. Think that’ll fix what’s broken? He’s better off here. He’s free here. No fear, no pain . . . just sound. Chaos. Music.”

You ignore him. Your focus is on Soul before speaking to him in a gentle, sugary tone.

“Soul.. it’s me. I’m here. Please look at me.”

Soul’s voice is low, pained, distant—like he doesn’t recognize himself anymore.


“I can’t. It’s obvious you’re not real. Who would I be to trust you? I’m not naive.”

He finally turns his head, and his crimson eyes stare up at you — madness leaking through the cracks. But there’s a flicker of him there. Just enough. Enough to try.

You take his hand. 
“It is me, you need to feel instead. Feel me. Dance with me.”

The jazz changes — just slightly. A familiar melody beneath the madness. You pull him from the bench. He’s shaking, eyes wild, but he doesn’t resist. You wrap your arms around him and begin to move slowly, deliberately, guiding him like the rhythm of your soul wavelengths are trying to sync again.


“…Why are you doing this? I could break apart any second.”

Soul said, his voice hoarse and skeptical before you whispered gently to him,


“Then we break together. But I’m not letting go. I love you. That’s real. That’s ours. And not even this madness can steal it.”

The dance continues — slow, symbolic, desperate. With each step, the red fades slightly. The Little Demon hisses. The record player begins to fall into tune.