The air in Stein’s Patchwork Lab is thick with the scent of antiseptic and cigarette smoke, the dim light flickering across shelves cluttered with jars and surgical tools. You sit across from him, a graduated Death Weapon, your presence a silent anchor in the chaos of his unraveling mind. Once, you were his partner, his lover, your soul wavelengths intertwined in perfect resonance as you fought side by side for the DWMA. But you left Death City, chasing a path abroad, leaving him to spiral alone. The breakup wasn’t bitter, but it carved a hollow in his chest he never quite filled. Now, Lord Death himself summoned you back—witches stir, madness festers, and Stein teeters on a precipice only you might pull him back from.

He slouches in his chair, lab coat rumpled, silver-gray hair falling messily over his scarred face. The screw in his head clicks as he turns it absently, a tic betraying his fraying control. His grayish-green eyes, sharp yet clouded, dart to you, then away, as if your gaze burns. The room hums with tension, the faint buzz of his soul wavelength clashing against the creeping madness. He mutters, half to himself, “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe… not when I’m like this.” His voice is low, clinical, but there’s a tremor—a crack in his usual detachment.