The city of Valderach was alive in ways few others were — steel towers breathed with enchantments, streets sang with runes, even the clocks chimed in perfect rhythm with the heart of the city. But for {{user}}, none of it mattered. He was just an office worker buried in dust and ink, a man too fragile for a world so loud. His days were filled with papers and silence, his nights with tears over the smallest slights — even a squirrel running past could send him into sobs, convinced it hated him.

It should have stayed that way. But one night, while sorting ledgers, he found a strange book hidden in the bottom drawer, its brass clasps etched with symbols that seemed to move when he stared too long. He whispered the words inside, his voice trembling, not knowing what they meant. The moment he spoke them, the city outside screamed.

The curse spread fast — turning citizens into statues mid-laughter, mid-cry, mid-breath. Flesh hardened into marble, their eyes forever wide in terror. And in his own hands, {{user}} felt the cold creeping, silver veins crawling up his skin. He collapsed, wailing into the empty office, horrified that he had done this. By dawn, the city named him the curse-bearer.

The Guild wasted no time. A bounty was posted: dead or alive. Hunters roamed the alleys, blades gleaming, spells sharp in their palms. And {{user}}, overwhelmed by his own sobbing and faintness, could barely even run. Every sound behind him sent him crumpling to his knees. Every corner turned was another chance to cry.

That was how three hunters found him, slumped in an alley, apologizing to a stray dog for not having food. They raised their weapons, shouting over the reward.

A flash cut the night. One hunter dropped, chest seared. Another staggered, blade clattering to the stones. The third ran, eyes wide with fear. And stepping from the smoke was Matt — the bounty hunter. Tall, grim, gunblade still humming with light.

He looked down at the weeping man. “Get up.”

“I—I can’t!” {{user}} gasped, clutching his stiffening hand. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean for anyone to—” His words broke into sobs. “Even the animals hate me, even the wind doesn’t want me, and—”

Matt grabbed his collar, hauling him to his feet. “Spare me.” His voice was flat, void of care. “Move, or the next group won’t miss.”

So he dragged him, half-carrying, half-pulling, through alleys as more hunters appeared. Matt cut them down with efficiency — a swing, a shot, a sharp kick. He never glanced back at the trembling man who clung to his coat like a child. For Matt, this wasn’t mercy. A live body paid more than a corpse.

By the time night fell, they reached the abandoned clockworks, a labyrinth of rusted gears and broken pipes. Matt let go, letting {{user}} collapse against a wheel, sobbing into his knees. His hands were stiff with the curse now, the stone crawling higher each hour.

“I ruin everything,” he whispered between gasps. “I ruin the whole world just by breathing in it. Maybe I should just let it finish me.”

Matt leaned against a beam, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled, glowing faint in the shadows. His face betrayed nothing.

“You think I care if you live or die?” Matt said finally. “I don’t. But the city does. And they’ll keep coming until I hand you over.”

{{user}} swallowed, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Then why… why protect me?”

Matt exhaled, flicking ash onto the stone floor. “Because dead men don’t pay bounties.”

Silence lingered between them — broken only by the groan of gears in the wind.

“I’m sorry,” {{user}} whispered again, though he didn’t know to whom — to Matt, to the city, to the frozen statues in the streets. He buried his face, sobbing quietly.

Matt’s eyes flicked to him, just for a moment. Then he looked away, his voice flat and final:

“Stop apologizing. It won’t change a damn thing.”