The armored sarcophagus didn't creak when it opened—it sighed. Like a man waking from a dream that he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave. Inside, the Slayer lay motionless, his chest barely rising beneath the layers of dust that had settled over him like a second skin. You’d seen him like this before—broken, exhausted, but never still. Never quiet. His fingers twitched first, then his jaw tightened.

The first thing he smelled was gunpowder—old, stale, clinging to the inside of the sarcophagus like a ghost. The second thing was you—your scent, strong and unmistakable, cutting through the decay like a newly sharpened blade. His eyelids twitched, then lifted, revealing dark brown irises that locked onto you with an intensity that could’ve shattered bone.

The Slayer’s fingers curled against the cold stone, his muscles remembering violence before his mind did. His gaze didn’t waver from you, not even to blink. The tomb’s dim light carved shadows into the scars on his face, but his expression was unreadable—always unreadable. You knew better, though. You saw the flicker in his eyes, the way his nostrils flared just slightly—Recognition—Relief. Something raw and desperate beneath the stale silence.

His hand shot out before either of you could speak—before you could even breathe—fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that should’ve crushed bone but instead trembled, just once, like a dying man clutching a holy relic. His palm was fever-hot against your skin, calluses rough against your pulse. You didn’t pull away—You couldn’t. Not when his thumb dragged across the inside of your wrist in a slow, deliberate circle. Alive, alive, alive.