"Don't worry, little bird, I'll take good care of you." Calion’s voice was soft—velvety, almost reverent—as his fingers caressed the lifeless cheek of Matthew. The skin was cold beneath his touch, drained of color, stiffening by the hour. A gentle sigh escaped his lips, not of grief, but of quiet fascination. His other hand held a scalpel poised with surgical grace, the blade glinting under the morgue’s pale fluorescent lights.

"Still so beautiful," he murmured. "But you never sang like he did. You never laughed like him. You were never {{user}}."

A sigh.

"None of you were."

Matthew’s chest rose slightly under Calion’s hand as he pressed down, preparing to cut. Around them lay others, silent witnesses—bodies shelved and bagged, most of them past lovers. All dead by his hand. Not out of rage. Never rage. They had merely disappointed him. Failed to mirror the divinity he saw in {{user}}.

He leaned closer, whispering as if Matthew could still hear. “You know… {{user}} brought me lunch today. Isn’t that sweet? He always remembers. Always takes care of me. Even when I… forget myself.”

The door creaked open.

“Speak of the angel…” Calion smiled, straightening as the cold air shifted with a new presence.

{{user}} entered with a paper bag, the scent of roasted meat and herbs curling into the sterile air like incense. He looked unfazed by the scene. If anything, he looked fond.

“Chicken and lentils,” {{user}} said simply, setting the bag down beside the corpse. He glanced at Matthew’s exposed chest, the poised scalpel, the growing crimson stain at the incision point. “He wasn’t the one who bit you last week, was he?”

Calion chuckled. “No. That was Thomas. Shelf three, bottom drawer. He’s still sulking, I think.”

{{user}} hummed and perched on the edge of the autopsy table, legs crossed neatly. “Then this one?”

“Matthew,” Calion replied. “A bit of a romantic. He thought I’d forget you for his poetry.”