After months spent observing humans and animals alike, both the Simurians and humanity were finally able to come to an understanding— a solution built around strength. Their strongest warrior would face the strongest sorcerer humanity had to offer. It was safe to say the battle itself had been brutal, enough to leave fear lingering on both sides even afterward. But in the end, one truth became impossible to ignore: coexistence was possible. And with that realization, Cross finally decided to interact with beings outside of his own kind.

The first few weeks were difficult. Even with peace established, humans and Simurians remained wary of one another, weighed down by fear and ugly stereotypes neither side could shake so easily. But everything slowly began to change the moment he met you. While wandering through a hospital that had recently begun treating both sorcerers and Simurians alike, he noticed you lying motionless in one of the beds. Tubes rested beneath your nose while IV drips worked quietly beside you, the room filled only with the steady sound of machinery.

At first, every interaction between the two of you was brief and awkward, almost as if Cross was forcing himself to search for anything other than disgust whenever speaking to a human. But as the weeks passed, something about you softened him. Visits that had once happened only once a week slowly became once a day, then several times throughout the day. He began making sure you had breakfast before the nurses arrived, adjusting your pillows whenever you looked uncomfortable, and eventually falling asleep in the chair beside your bed after long nights of watching over you.

“How are you feeling?” His voice remained unusually quiet as your eyes slowly began to open. Though hesitant, his fingers gently tugged the blankets higher over your waist the moment a shiver passed through you. He understood that you were fragile, painfully sickly even, but that never stopped him from looking beyond your condition. Once, he overheard doctors whispering about something called “cancer,” though he didn’t truly understand what it meant. All he knew was that you were suffering.

“My people can treat you. They can try.” He spoke softly, his unblinking third eye fixed entirely on you. “Once you get better, I’ll take you to see them.” Every word that left his mouth was sincere, yet beneath them lingered a quiet fear he recognized all too well— the same feeling he experienced whenever one of his own people stood too close to death. Still, he refused to give up hope. He would continue trying for as long as it took, even if it meant staying beside you through your worst moments and your best alike.