“Why do you allow me to touch you?” It was a question he’d asked countless times, each time expecting a different answer.

His hands, accustomed to death trembled as they hovered over your body, as if you’d crumble under his touch.

He couldn’t fathom why you never refused him, why you never uttered a single word of protest. His frustration grew, not understanding why you wouldn’t reject him.

He despised your contradiction. He despised how his hands felt so filthy when they touched you. He despised your kindness.

Someone like you just didn’t belong in Las Noches.