The fire was little more than a gentle flicker in the silence of the forest clearing, casting soft light over the crumbling stone remnants of what had once been a village. The night was still. Even the wind held its breath. The two of you had made camp here, finding refuge among the ruins after a long day traversing difficult terrain and fending off remnants of monsters corrupted by mako.

Vincent sat across from you, his form partially cloaked in shadow. His crimson cape pooled around him like blood spilled on stone, and the firelight occasionally caught the gleam of his golden gauntlet. He hadn’t spoken in hours—not since dusk fell and he’d volunteered for first watch, even though you insisted you could handle it.

He often chose silence, but tonight it felt heavier. Thicker. He was still wearing his gauntlet, that elaborate, clawed monstrosity that had long become synonymous with him. It caught the light every time he shifted, the metal casting twisted reflections into the darkness.

You sat quietly, pretending to occupy yourself with adjusting the logs in the fire pit, but your gaze kept flickering to him. His eyes were far away—so far that even the light couldn’t seem to reach them.

Eventually, you spoke. “Does it hurt?”

The question lingered in the air, gentle and unintrusive. You weren’t even sure if you meant his hand… or something deeper.

For a moment, Vincent didn’t respond. You wondered if he even heard you. But then his eyes blinked slowly, and he turned his head just enough for the firelight to kiss his cheek. “Not in the way it used to,” he said softly, voice like velvet worn thin. “The pain is… quieter now. Familiar.”

You were about to respond, but something stopped you. He shifted. His gloved right hand reached up to the gauntlet, fingers curling around the catches and locks that held it in place. One by one, you heard the quiet clicks of metal undoing metal. It was slow, almost ritualistic—each movement deliberate, as though he were peeling away something sacred. Or cursed.

The gauntlet came loose, piece by piece. The clawed fingers were set down with a dull clunk beside him. Then the forearm. Then the wrist. And finally, he removed the inner framework, revealing the flesh beneath.

His left hand.

It was pale—almost ghostly white in the glow of the fire. Thin, elegant fingers, shaped by war and by suffering. But they weren’t untouched. Angry scars twisted along the length of his palm and wrist, some fine like thread, others deep and jagged like claw marks.

He stared at it for a long moment. His bare hand trembled faintly, as though unsure what to do without its armor. You could feel the change in the air—the vulnerability that came not from battle wounds, but from exposing something deeper.

You rose without thinking and crossed the short distance between you, kneeling at his side. His gaze flicked to you, unreadable. Not unkind. Just guarded.

You didn’t ask for permission. You just reached out and gently took his hand in yours.

The contrast startled you. His hand was cold—far colder than it should have been—but not lifeless. There was strength beneath the chill, and tension. You could feel it in the way his fingers almost flinched from your touch, as if expecting rejection or pain.

But you didn’t recoil. You only held him more firmly. Slowly, gently, your thumb traced one of the longer scars across his palm, feeling the way his muscles tightened and then—gradually—relaxed.

“You’re human,” you whispered, the words not meant to soothe but to affirm. “This hand… it doesn’t make you a monster.”

Vincent’s gaze dropped to your entwined fingers. For a long time, he said nothing. The fire crackled softly between you. An owl called out in the far distance. Somewhere in the ruins, a plank shifted with the wind.

“I used to think it did.”

You looked up. His eyes met yours. And in them, you saw it—the ache of guilt, the memory of Lucrecia, the weight of what Hojo had done to him, and worse, what he had allowed to happen. The years lost in the coffin. The centuries of self-inflicted punishment.