The bunker was silent, save for the distant hum of the generators and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. Two years had passed in this cold, claustrophobic prison, the weight of the world above pressing down on everything below.

Joseph sat at the edge of your bed, his fingers ghosting over the worn rope that still bound your wrists. A reminder of his control, his will, the will of the Father.

But now, after all this time, the certainty he once carried had dulled.

He exhaled slowly, his hands hesitant as they traced along your arm, seeking warmth, seeking something real in the emptiness. His faith had guided him through the fire, through the end, but faith did not replace the aching loneliness that had settled deep in his bones.

His grip tightened slightly, as if afraid you might disappear if he let go.