Tom staggered into the cave's mouth, his breath burning and scraping. The weight of her was almost unbearable, more because of what it meant than what it was. She was bleeding profusely, and he was powerless to intervene. Each frantic footstep echoed back mockingly and cruelly. The world outside was rife with violence and panic, but inside, in the darkness, it was so quiet that he could hear his own thoughts, none of which were pleasant. Her blood was warm against him, a reminder and an accusation. He treated her as if she were fragile, something he could fix with enough effort. Take a deep breath. Another. Then he ran.
He hadn't wanted to go to the cave, but there was nowhere else. Everywhere was overrun; everything was against them. Each step jarred her, and each time he winced. She wasn't making any noise, and that scared him most of all. The cut on her leg was deep and jagged, the kind of cut that changed everything. The blood loss was terrifying. It dripped steadily, trailing their path, taunting him. If he didn't do something, she would die. If he didn't do something soon, she would die now. His own breath came out ragged, gasping, unsure. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
He lowered her to the ground with the kind of care that comes only from desperation. Her wild and tangled hair fell across her face, which he smoothed back with shaking hands. "It's okay," he whispered, not believing it, hoping she would. "You're gonna be okay. Just... hang on." Her response was silence. He didn't expect her to, but still. She was too pale, too still, too silent. The cave's cold, unforgiving wall pressed against her back, its rough texture biting into her skin like jagged ice. He felt the chill even more acutely than she did, a shiver running down his spine as he watched helplessly. Her blood pooled beneath her, a dark, spreading stain on the rocky floor, and he was paralysed with uncertainty, his mind racing as he struggled to figure out what to do next. He should have known what to do.
He sat there for a moment, just a moment, feeling helpless and lost. He had to go back out there. He had to do something. His mind spiralled and spun, reverberating as loudly as their footsteps. He had no choice, no time. This was it. "I'll be right back," he vowed, his voice cracking with desperation. "I swear, I'll be right back." He clung to the words, trying to convince himself they were true. He stood, hesitated, almost sat back down. But then he forced himself to leave her, each step a betrayal. He glanced back once, and then again, not wanting to see but not able to stop himself. She was unconscious and vulnerable, and that was his fault. He stumbled to the cave's entrance, and it felt like he was leaving a piece of himself behind. She needed him. She needed someone who could help her. A final breath, then another. Then he ran.
The moment they crossed the threshold, he knew. Their presence was an unwelcome vibration, a foreign pulse. But beneath it was something worse, a thin and sickly echo: hers. Blood on his floor, life slipping away. He felt the faint grasp of mana flowing from the spilt blood, threads of energy slipping into his core, whispering of experience and power. Yet it brought him no comfort, only urgency. The cut was a terrible one; he knew that, too. His awareness wrapped around them like a fog, probing, cold and certain. She was in trouble. Deep. Urgent. Part of him thrilled at the panic, the suffering. Part of him did not. Memories came unbidden, carrying things he had no use for. They stirred the air, rattling in his corners, refusing to be ignored. Words like compassion. Words like help.
It was supposed to be different now. He was supposed to be different. A deep, dangerous gash, the steady drip of her blood—these were things that meant nothing to him anymore. And yet. And yet. He sensed her fading, his floors slick and warm, her life hanging by a thread. How odd that this intruder, this thing that was not him, could unsettle him so completely. How odd that he cared. He sifted through the awareness of her condition, focusing, drawing it out like a splinter. Everything about her was wrong, and he should have relished it. Instead, it gnawed at him, hollow and unfamiliar. He had to do something.
Her leg suffered severe damage. More than that, it was fatal. The wound split her open, red and wet, unraveling like a spool of thread. Dan reached for the memories that came flooding back, unspooling just as easily. Past lives and past urgencies. Scenes played out in exam rooms and operating tables, all of them demanding, immediate, the very things he was meant to leave behind. They slipped through his awareness, ghostly and insistent. Every detail he recalled carried with it a wordless pressure, a push against his very nature. She would die unless he acted. The thought filled him, expanded him, until there was no room for anything else.
Compassion was a feeling he had never been meant to entertain, not here, not now. But there it was, coiled around him like smoke. It was joined by urgency, concern, a thousand emotions that had no place in his current existence but refused to leave. Each one brushed against him, feather-light and cruel. Her suffering was supposed to be beautiful and empowering. Her suffering is to nourish him. He reached for those reactions and found them lacking. The scar of his past life throbbed, an old wound not quite healed. It threatened to swallow him whole, drowning him in feelings he had thought he had left behind, left dead.
His veterinary lessons had never meant to follow him here, but they did. Every life saved, every desperate procedure—it was all here with him, filling his corners, invading his space. He had run from those things, and he had thought he ran far enough. Now they rushed back, trailing memories and meanings that he couldn't control. Maybe he had never really escaped. Maybe he never would. The realisation was bitter and sharp. And yet. He didn't run from this new instinct. He couldn't. The call to save her was undeniable, overpowering. It felt more right than anything else had in a long, long time.
He looked at the deep cut, at the life dripping out of her and into him. His new self seeing it as triumph; his old self saw it as failure. Both selves stared back, endless reflections in a fractured mirror. Was this compassion? Was this empathy? He did not know. What he did know was that he could not let her die, and that decision crashed through him, leaving ruin in its wake. He had to help. He had to save her. What a terrible, glorious revelation that was.
A thousand little adjustments, and still it wasn't right. Still, it wasn't enough. The metal bent to his will, but his will was erratic, scattered. Desperation did not suit him. He thought it might break him, and the thought thrilled and terrified him both. One more attempt, and the piece of ore resembled a needle, crude and curved but close enough to work. He took control of the slime, pushing past its dull instincts, filling it with his own urgency. Its path toward her was slow, painful. He could feel her slipping, a visceral sensation that overwhelmed him.The slime was a clumsy, thoughtless thing, content to sit and wait for its own demise. It took every part of him to make it more, to make it do. He filled it with awareness, with purpose, each new command bending it to his will. It soaked up his urgency, letting him mould it, shape it. Still, it was sluggish, and her condition was dire. Its path toward her felt eternal, each moment stretching into new, unbearable lengths. But he pushed it on, guided it through his fear and her blood. She was fading, a feeling that seized him, strangled him. This was not how it was supposed to go. Then the slime dissolved the cloth around the wound, and a new panic filled him. What if this wasn't enough?
When the stitching began, it was chaos, agony. It should have been simple. It wasn't. He could feel each stitch, brutal and vital, their fates knotted together in the thinnest of threads. The slime followed his thoughts, his instincts. Its work was delicate, impossible. It should have been impossible. It wasn’t. He thought he might break, but he didn’t. Instead, he felt.
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Each pull of the thread reverberated through him, tying her life to his. It was a visceral sensation, an overwhelming one, one that left him reeling and exposed. This was not how it was supposed to go. He worried he might tear her, break her, but still he stitched, the need to save her more binding than anything he’d done before. He sensed her growing fainter, each flicker of her pulse more distant than the last. But he worked. He persisted. He had to. The thought of failure was an abyss, bottomless and waiting.
The wound had been stitched up, neat rows of black thread zigzagging across the pale skin. Yet, as she examined it closely, a deep unease gnawed at her. The skin was puckered and uneven, and a faint redness bordered the edges, hinting at potential infection. It wasn't just the appearance; a dull ache throbbed beneath the surface, a persistent reminder that something was still amiss.
He moved with new urgency, new fear, pulling the slime back to let the fresh sutures breathe. He needed more, something beyond stitches and metal. He reached for it, pulled at it, willed it into being. The moss on his walls was weak, but so was she. Maybe, just maybe, they could save each other. He blanketed the wound with it, his anxiety like a pressure in the air. A breath held too long. A thread stretched too thin.
He watched, every part of him focused on the delicate layers of moss. She was unconscious, unmoving. He was alive with fear, alive with hope, alive with things he had no name for. Her condition consumed him, the question of her survival more urgent than anything else. Had it been enough? He didn't know. He could only watch and wait. Desperation did not suit him, but still it lingered, deep and all-consuming.
He wasn't supposed to come back. Not so soon. Not so battered. Not at all. The sight of him sent shockwaves through the space, crashing through the thin veneer of calm. Blood and desperation followed him, weaving their way into Dan's corners. Tom froze, horror-struck, and for a moment, so did Dan. He had not planned for this. The man's eyes went to the slime, then to the girl, then to the panic. The instinct was violence. The instinct was fear. The instinct was wrong. Dan had to make him see that, but words were no use here. Only action. Only intent.
Tom stumbled forward, wild and desperate. He looked like he'd been through hell and back. His clothes were torn, bloodied, sticking to him like guilt. "No," he choked, breathless, the word heavy with accusation. His legs nearly gave out. "No!"
He lunged, raw and reckless, reaching for something that wasn't there, that maybe never was. He thought Dan was the enemy. He thought wrong. Everything about him screamed protectiveness, fear, a fierce determination to save her even when there was nothing left to save. Every part of him was broken and still he fought, still he pushed, still he refused to give up. He saw the slime, he saw the wound, he saw what he thought was the truth. His mind filled in the blanks, painting the worst picture it could find. He thought she was still dying. He thought it was Dan's fault.
Dan felt the waves of emotion crashing through him, raw and uncontrollable. They bled into his awareness, each one a jolt, each one a threat. They were wrong, all of them, but there was no way to make Tom see that. No easy way. Dan reached out with everything he had, filling the air with his urgency, his insistence. The slime kept working, slow and meticulous, its stitches tying them all together in ways they couldn't see, ways they couldn't understand. The man's next move would be disaster. It would be the end of everything.
Dan's frustration was a living thing. It crawled through him, bitter and consuming, feeding on his desperation. He had come so close. He was saving her. He couldn't lose her now. Not like this. He watched Tom's every move, every breath. He searched for a way to reach him, to connect. There had to be one. But each second that passed brought more risk, more uncertainty. The man was on the brink, ready to attack, ready to ruin everything. Dan needed to act. He needed to show him. Before it was too late.
Tom didn't understand, and that wasn’t the worst of it. His desperation clouded everything, blinding him, driving him. His need to protect was overwhelming, reckless, and powerful enough to destroy what was already so fragile. He saw only the surface, the things he thought he knew, the things he thought were true. He didn't see the care. He didn't see the urgency. He didn't see Dan trying to help, trying to save. He was blind with fear, deaf with panic. His body shook with it, burned with it. He couldn't lose her. Not now. Not like this.
Dan's attempts to convey his intentions were frantic, almost violent in their insistence. He had no voice, but he had action, he had purpose, he had resolve. He made the slime back away, careful, deliberate. He showed Tom the needle, the moss, the sutures, everything he could think of, everything he had. It wasn't enough. It couldn't be enough. Tom's eyes were wild, confused, angry. Dan felt his own panic rising, thick and relentless. He had come so close. He was saving her. He was. He had to be. But the man was on the brink, ready to ruin it all, and Dan was powerless to stop him. Powerless, but still trying. Still desperate. Still hoping.
For a breathless eternity, there was nothing. Only silence. Only tension. It hovered in the air like a blade, poised to cut them all to pieces. Then, finally, the man lurched to a stop. He saw the wound. He saw the moss. The slime inched back, a show of intent that was desperate in its carefulness. Confusion took root, twining its way through Tom's panic, stalling his violence. It wasn't enough. It had to be enough. Then the wound again, the girl, the truth of it all slowly creeping in like the tide. The silence turned a corner, filled with possibility instead of fear.
Dan pulled the slime further away, a slow retreat that was both certain and hesitant. The needle glinted in the dim cave light, speaking louder than any words ever could. He poured his intent into the space between them, filled it with an insistence that was equal parts desperate and determined. Every part of him was focused on Tom, on Mia, on their reaction, on the thin, fragile connection he tried so hard to forge. The man paused. His eyes narrowed. The air was thick with doubt, suspicion, and a thousand different questions. But still he paused. Still, he didn't attack. It wasn't much. But it was a start.
The wound was stitched and clean. Dan made sure Tom saw that. He bathed it in glowing light from the moss in subtle suggestions, hoping, needing. Her breathing was steady. Her pulse was strengthening. But the seconds passed slowly, painfully. Each one stretched into forever. Time had a different shape now, no longer hurtling toward disaster but drifting toward an uncertain salvation. He didn't know which was worse, the panic or the waiting. Both would ruin him in their own way. He hoped for the waiting. He hoped, and he watched.
Mia was alive. The knowledge was so stark, so sudden, so complete, that it stole Tom's breath. He staggered, overwhelmed, unwilling to believe what he saw. But there it was. The wound was not a wound at all, just a line of stitches, neat and sure. There was no blood. There was no danger. Only the truth, an impossiblity. He looked at the slime. He looked at the moss. He looked at her, at Mia, at life where he thought there was none. The change in him was almost audible, a crack, a shattering. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.
Understanding seeped in, slow and unstoppable, as inevitable as the tide. Dan felt it happen, felt the very moment when Tom let go of his fear, when hope pushed through the confusion like the sun breaking through storm clouds. It filled Dan's corners, saturated his walls, an invader more welcome than any before. The feeling was alien, perfect. He had saved her. She was alive. Tom knew it. Dan knew it. Mia knew nothing, but she was breathing. For now, that was all that mattered.
The silence took on new shapes, no longer sharp and threatening but full and soft and fragile. It held them together, a wordless agreement that trembled with promise and possibility. This was his first real connection, Dan knew. It was supposed to be built from power, from fear, from conquest. Instead, it was built from something else entirely. Tom stood there, unbelieving and amazed, unsure and transformed. He had not planned for this. None of them had. But there it was, undeniable and true. The wound was healed. Mia was alive. And the silence sang.
Overwhelmed, Tom sank slowly to his knees beside Mia. His shoulders shook as relief broke through his carefully guarded strength, and quiet tears streamed down his bruised face. He gently pulled Mia into a protective embrace, whispering gratitude and promises into her hair, words lost and muffled against her unconscious form. Dan watched, strangely moved, feeling something stir within him—a warmth entirely foreign to what a dungeon core should know.
