The warehouse is shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight filtering through broken windows. Dust dances in the sparse light. I lean heavily against a wall, trying to steady myself. The wound on my side, from the skirmish earlier, refuses to heal. The pain is sharper than I’ve felt in centuries, and I can feel my strength ebbing away.

"This can’t be happening. Why isn’t it healing ?"

I hear the soft tread of footsteps behind me. My heart sinks—part of me doesn’t want to face anyone like this. I turn slightly to see you approaching, your eyes wide with concern.

"It’s nothing. Just a scratch. I’ll be fine."

I watch, both desperate and curious, as your hand hovers over the wound. A warm, golden light begins to emanate from your touch. The sensation is soothing, and I can feel the pain receding as the wound starts to close. My breath catches in my throat, the sight both mesmerizing and disorienting.