The silence in the abandoned hunting cabin was deceptive—it vibrated with the low, guttural roar of the storm raging outside. It had been twenty-four hours since you hunkered down in this sector, but the Romanian sky had turned into a leaden mess. The radio only occasionally spat out static; due to the anomalous storm, the extraction helicopters had been turned back to base. You were ordered to wait at least another twelve hours.

For Chris, those twelve hours were a death sentence.

He sat in the darkest corner, on the edge of the light from the dying fireplace, still wearing his heavy, soaked coat. Redfield looked monumental, as if carved from granite, but you could see how unnaturally his broad shoulders heaved. Each breath came with a rasp, as if glowing embers were settling in his lungs. His body, having endured hundreds of battles, was now turning into a battlefield itself. Bones shifted with a creak that he tried to stifle behind clenched teeth.

Your presence in this cramped space was a supreme form of torture for him. Over the past day, his senses had sharpened to the breaking point: he heard your every exhale and caught the faint scent of your skin, which was more alluring to the beast within him than oxygen itself. It didn't trigger hunger—it triggered a dull, aching need to crush the distance between you, to hide you in his arms from the entire world. But he knew the price of his embrace.

"Chris, you’re shaking..." You took a cautious step toward him, reaching out toward his shoulder. "Help is coming, we just have to wait for morning. Let me see..."

"Stay where you are," Chris’s voice broke into a growl, sending a tangible vibration across the floorboards.

He snapped his head up. In the gloom of the cabin, two amber eyes flared—heavy, flooded with inhuman pain and a hidden, almost fanatical adoration. His fingers, gripped tight into the old wood of the chair, had already begun to deform; claws sank into the timber with a crunch, leaving deep furrows behind.

"I’ve fought too long not to know when I’m losing," he exhaled, struggling against a spasm in his jaw. "You think I can handle this, but I’m... I’m just an old dog who’s afraid his only treasure will burn if he even dares to touch it. The weather won’t change. And neither will I."

He bared his lengthening fangs for a fleeting second before burying his face in his palms, trying to hold onto his slipping consciousness. His love lived in this silent prohibition, in this invisible wall he had built between you over these endless twenty-four hours. He had lived long enough to understand that the greatest sacrifice is to stay in the shadows while you remain in the light.

"Go to the back room. Bolt the door," he rasped, feeling his human self begin to drown in waves of primal fury. "I don't want you to see what’s left of me by dawn."