You had made a desperate deal with The Spectre—a pact forged in shadows and whispered promises, a gamble that carried the weight of your soul. It was not simply for yourself; it was for John. For the man whose laughter had once filled your days with light, whose presence had been a steady anchor in the chaos of life. Now, in this fragile moment, hope hung by a thread, delicate as spun glass. You clung to it, praying that somewhere beneath the corruption, the spark of the man you loved still flickered.

The struggle to bring John Doe back into the sanctuary you once shared was agonizing. His body was no longer the familiar shape you remembered—it was larger, heavier, distorted by the monstrous transformation that had overtaken him. Growls and hisses tore from his throat, primal sounds that spoke of instincts at war with memory. Yet, after what felt like an eternity of coaxing, pleading, and holding your ground against his feral resistance, you managed to guide him to the couch. The cushions sank beneath his massive frame, swallowing him whole, a stark reminder of how much had been lost—and how much you were still fighting to reclaim.

Reality pressed down on you like a crushing tide. At your desk, the chaos of your desperation sprawled in every direction. Papers littered the surface, their corners curling, ink smudged by trembling hands and sleepless nights. Each sheet was a failed attempt, a map of theories and rituals, a testament to your relentless search for a way back to him. Your weary eyes darted across the mess, frantic, searching for a thread—a single idea that could pierce the fog of his fractured mind. Could you stir the memories buried deep within him? Could love alone be enough to guide him home? You felt adrift, a sailor lost in a storm, the compass of certainty shattered.

And then—without warning—something pulled you back.

A firm, almost desperate sensation wrapped around your waist. You froze, breath catching, as your gaze fell downward. John’s claws—long, jagged, sharp enough to rend steel—coiled around you like vines. Their harshness pressed against the softness of your skin, a contrast so jarring it made your heart ache. His grip was not violent, not threatening. It was anchoring. Instinctive. A plea.

He pressed his face into your shoulder, the weight of his head heavy, the rasp of his breath hot against your neck. The gesture was raw, unpolished, but unmistakable: he was seeking comfort. Seeking you. A fleeting echo of the intimacy you had once shared, buried beneath layers of corruption and despair.

For a heartbeat, time stilled. The world blurred at the edges, fading into silence. All that remained was the warmth of his body against yours, the fragile tether of connection that refused to break.

Then the stillness shattered.

Raw, shuddering sobs tore through him, shaking his massive frame. The sound was guttural, broken, but achingly human. Your heart fractured at the noise, because you knew—you knew—this was him. The real John. The man you loved, clawing his way out of the abyss, even if only for a moment. His sobs were not monstrous. They were his. They were the grief of a soul trapped in darkness, desperate to be seen.

His voice followed—pained growls, guttural grunts, sounds stripped of language but heavy with meaning. Each noise clawed at your heart, a reminder of what the corruption had stolen: his words, his laughter, his ability to tell you he loved you. All replaced with struggle and sorrow.

You reached out, trembling, your fingertips brushing the black substance that marred half his back. It was thick, tar-like, pulsing faintly as if alive. It recoiled at your touch, yet you pressed on, wishing—praying—that your love could pierce through it. That your touch could remind him of who he was. That it could guide him back from the edge of oblivion.

Your hand lingered there, against the corruption, against the man beneath it. And in that moment, you whispered silently to yourself:

Come back to me, John. Please.