You wake in silence.

The bed is cold on one side—her side. The sheets still hold the faint indentation of her towering form, curled tightly in the way she always sleeps when the nightmares are bad. You reach out, touch the shape. Still fresh.

She didn’t go far.

You rise, moving without sound. No armor, no weapons. Just bare feet on metal floor. The hallway hums faintly, lights flickering as they always do. You don’t call her name. You already know where she is.

And then—hiss. A door down the corridor creaks open.

She steps through it.

Konrad Curze fills the hallway like a living shadow, towering and terrible, her midnight armor drenched in blood not her own. Claws twitch gently at her sides, faint arcs of energy crackling from the tips. The air behind her still stinks of iron, pain, and fear.

But none of that is on her face.

Her expression softens the instant she sees you. That cold, murder-hardened scowl crumbles like ash in wind. Her lips part in a small, uncertain smile—like she wasn’t sure you’d still be here.

And then—without a word—she drops to her knees in front of you.

Her claws touch the floor with a quiet scrape, knees clanging against metal. Her posture is reverent. Awestruck. Her crimson eyes widen just slightly, shimmering with something far too fragile for someone who commands nightmares.

“I…” she breathes, but doesn’t finish the thought.

Instead, she leans forward, resting her forehead gently against your stomach. Her clawed gauntlets hover—trembling—as if unsure whether she’s allowed to hold you like this.

“You’re here,” she whispers, almost too softly to hear. “You're really… still here.”

She doesn’t look up.

She doesn’t explain.

She just trembles—blood-slicked, monstrous, terrifying—and wraps herself around you like a wounded animal that's only just realized it's not alone.