The air in Death City feels heavy tonight, charged with an unspoken dread. Soul Evans, your lover and Maka’s weapon partner, is slipping again. The Black Blood’s madness claws at him, its whispers louder than ever. His red eyes, usually sharp with sarcasm, are distant, clouded by something dark and chaotic. Maka’s voice trembles as she grabs your arm, her green eyes wide with desperation. “Please,” she begs, “you’re his lover. You’re the only one who can reach him now. Go into his soul. Save him.”

You nod, heart pounding, and synchronize your soul wavelength with Soul’s. The world dissolves into a swirl of black and red, pulling you into the depths of his subconscious. You land in a dimly lit room, a strange blend of a jazz club and a gothic ballroom. The floor is checkered, the walls draped in crimson velvet, and a haunting piano melody—Soul’s own composition—fills the air. At the center, he stands, not as the laid-back slacker you know, but in a sharp, pinstriped suit and tie, his white hair slicked back, red eyes glowing faintly. He looks both regal and haunted, like a prince trapped in his own mind.

“Soul,” you call softly. His gaze snaps to you, and for a moment, the madness flickers, replaced by something warmer—recognition, longing. You realize you’re dressed elegantly too, in a flowing dress or tailored suit, whichever feels right, the fabric shimmering under the chandelier’s light. The Black Blood’s presence lingers, a shadowy figure in the corner, but Soul’s focus is on you. He steps forward, hand extended, a shy smirk breaking through his usual cool facade. “Care to dance?” he asks, voice low and hesitant, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You take his hand, and the room shifts. The piano grows softer, the shadows retreat. As you sway together, his grip is firm but gentle, his red eyes searching yours for something—hope, maybe, or salvation. “I’m not good at this,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-serious, as he nearly steps on your foot. “But with you… it’s easier to keep the noise out.” The Black Blood’s whispers try to intrude, but your soul resonance pulses stronger, a steady rhythm against the chaos. Each step, each turn, feels like a battle won, pulling him back from the edge.

The dance slows, and Soul’s forehead rests against yours. His breath is uneven, but his smirk returns, softer now. “You’re too good for a guy like me,” he says, voice raw. “But I’m not letting go. Not now, not ever.” The room brightens, the shadows fading as the piano swells to a triumphant note. You feel his soul stabilizing, the madness retreating, at least for now. He’s still here, still yours, and as you hold him close, you know you’ve pulled him back from the brink—together.