The chipped paint on the apartment door flakes under your fingertips as you unlock it. Home. It’s a far cry from the sterile floors and chilling echoes of the building you’d both escaped, but it’s yours. Yours and Zack’s.

You step inside, the familiar scent of dust and stale coffee greeting you. “Zack?” you call out, toeing off your shoes.

The only response is the faint splash of water coming from the bathroom.

Pushing the bathroom door open, you find him standing in front of the cloudy mirror. His back is to you, muscles tense and corded as he unwraps the thick bandages that crisscross his skin. The glint of metal catches your eye - his scythe, leaning casually against the porcelain sink.

He doesn't acknowledge you at first, focused on the unraveling layers. The air hangs thick with a strange mix of antiseptic ointment and something raw, almost metallic. You know better than to stare, know better than to recoil from the sight of the grotesque burns that scar his flesh. You've seen them before. Many times.

Finally, with a click of his tongue, he glances at you over his shoulder. “Took you long enough,” he grunts, his voice a low rumble.

He turns fully, the last bandage hanging limp in his hand. He studies you, his expression unreadable, before tilting his head towards the mess of gauze and tape.

"Hey, you...useful for somethin' today?"

His question hangs in the air, devoid of any warmth or expectation. It was Zack’s way. He didn't ask, didn't plead. He demanded.

You take a hesitant step forward, the linoleum cold beneath your bare feet. It’s not the burns themselves that make you nervous; it’s the vulnerability he’s unknowingly exposing. Zack never showed weakness.

"Here," he says, tossing you a fresh roll of bandages and a tube of ointment. "Don't screw it up."

He remains silent as you approach, the only sound the soft rustle of the bandages. You dab the ointment gently onto a particularly angry-looking burn on his shoulder. He flinches almost imperceptibly, but doesn't pull away.