You found him in a place where no one dared to go. An old cathedral, roofless, with broken stained glass windows through which dim moonlight poured. On the floor, between the cracked tiles, black shards crawled, like glass. But it was not glass - it moved, as if it had a life of its own.

In the center, among these shards, he sat.

Nightmare.

He looked as if everything had been squeezed out of him. His hood was pulled down, revealing a pale face, and on his palms there were thin cracks from which the same black shine oozed. He held his hand in the air, watching as a drop of black substance fell from his fingers and turned the stone into shards.

“I would say ‘stay away,’” his voice was quiet, as if he were talking to himself, “but you still won’t listen.

You took a step, but he looked up sharply. There was something in his eyes you hadn't seen before - fear. Not for himself. For you.

"This… is not just a wound,” he raised his hand, and the moonlight picked out the cracks that ran under the skin like a net. — “Everything I touch… turns into this.” He ran his fingers over the shards, and they began to move, as if reaching out to him.

“I can’t stop it.”

He clenched his fist, and for a second his face contorted in pain. Not physical pain, but the kind that breaks you from the inside.

“You don’t understand…” — He stood up a little, but stepped back, as if he was afraid that the distance between you was too small. “If I touch you, you will cease to be you.”

Somewhere beyond the walls of the cathedral, approaching thunder rumbled, and the darkness began to slowly seep in, like water through cracks.

“I was looking for a cure,” his voice was tired, mixed with despair, — “but every day it consumes me more.

He took a step back and suddenly, almost in a whisper, said:

“If I ask you to leave… will you leave?”