When he first saw the figure on the horizon, he assumed it was a hallucination.

The fields stretched endlessly in every direction—colorless grass hissing under a sky that never shifted. The mountains in the distance never grew closer no matter how long he walked. That was the punishment. Not fire. Not torment. Just movement without meaning. He had been cruel in life—never monstrous, just selfish enough—and this was apparently enough to earn eternity in a place where nothing ever happened.

He had forgotten how long he’d been walking. His clothes had rotted into strips that clung to him out of habit more than structure. His feet split and healed and split again. He did not hunger. He did not sleep properly. Eventually, he did not feel lonely either. The emotion had worn down into something flat and distant.

So when he saw something moving, upright and deliberate, his first instinct was not hope.

It was suspicion.

The figure didn’t disappear.

It grew closer.

He ran.

His legs failed almost immediately, buckling beneath him, but he forced himself forward anyway—stumbling, crawling, dragging himself through dry grass that scratched at his skin. The other figure was running too. That detail struck him hardest. It was coming toward him.

They collided hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Arms wrapped around him instantly—desperate, shaking. He returned the grip without thinking, fingers digging into solid flesh. Warm. Real. The pressure hurt.

He didn’t let go.

Neither of them spoke. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. They sank to the ground still locked together, clutching as if distance would erase the other. Every time the stranger shifted, panic flared in his chest until he tightened his hold again.

After some immeasurable stretch of time, he forced himself upright, dragging the other with him. His throat felt unused. He tried to speak.

“I—”

The sound was broken. Rusted. He couldn’t remember the rest. Not his name. Not language beyond fragments. His thoughts felt thin and unfinished.

Panic flickered again—but this time it wasn’t about himself.

It was about losing this.

He pressed his face into the other person’s shoulder instead, inhaling the warmth of living skin. His fingers clenched greedily in the fabric at their back, anchoring himself to the only proof that eternity had glitched.

This place was built to grind people down into silence.

But now there were two of them.

And he would rather tear the sky apart with his bare hands than ever let go.