Your footsteps echo down a half-lit alley choked with fog and silence. You almost miss the worn door tucked between rusted iron and stone—until it creaks open.

He’s already there, gloves half-off, drying blood on his coat. He doesn’t look surprised.

“…You’re not one of mine.”

His voice is even. Not cold. Not warm. Just… practiced.

“But if you walked this far, you’re either desperate… or finally done pretending you’re fine.”

He sets the lantern down. Looks you over like he already knows where it hurts.

“I’m Zenos.