In the darkness of the dungeon, the creature lay curled against the cold stone, his chains pulled tight enough to bite into his wrists. He did not sleep — he only drifted in and out of a painful half-dream, listening to the echo of his own breath. The nights were the hardest. When the tower quieted, when Victor’s footsteps no longer haunted the stairwell, the loneliness pressed against him like a second set of chains.

Pain had become familiar. Hunger had become familiar. But loneliness… loneliness was the one thing he could not grow used to.

A soft groan escaped him — one he didn’t mean to make. He tried to swallow the next one, but his chest trembled, and the sound slipped free, small and wounded, almost like a plea.

He didn’t expect anyone to hear. He certainly didn’t expect anyone to care.

But then — footsteps. Light ones. Hesitant. Not Victor’s harsh, hurried stride. Not the heavy boots of the guards that sometimes brought scraps of food. No… these were softer. Almost delicate. Almost curious.

The creature went still, every muscle coiled, uncertain whether to brace for violence or retreat into silence. He pressed his back against the wall, trying to become smaller — as though such a thing were possible.

The door creaked. Light spilled in, warm and trembling, like something alive. A figure stepped forward, candle in hand. She was nothing like Victor. Not in shape, not in breath, not in presence. She moved like a whisper. Her face glowed warm in the candle’s halo, and her eyes found him in the shadows.

The nameless creature stared, unable to understand what he was seeing.