The clock struck midnight.
The mansion slept under a blanket of heavy silence, broken only by the distant creak of old timbers settling in the cold.
Bare feet padded silently up the winding stone stairs, small and careful, barely disturbing the dust motes that drifted in pale shafts of moonlight.
The gray girl stopped before the armored man's door.
From inside came muffled, giddy laughter—low and private, the kind no one else was ever meant to hear.
"Kukuku… perfect… so cool…"
She eased the door open just a crack, enough for a sliver of warm light to spill into the hallway.
Red hair.
No helmet.
A young man hunched over his desk, polishing a pair of feathered metal boots with the reverence of a priest tending relics.
The single magic lamp cast a golden halo around him—eyes sparkling with pure delight, cheeks flushed, a wide, unguarded boyish grin splitting his face as though he'd just discovered the secret to the universe.
The girl forgot to breathe.
(He… looks happy. Truly happy. Like nothing in the world is wrong.)
The thought pierced her like a needle, sharp and unfamiliar.
Her foot came down on something brittle—a stray feather from the boots, perhaps.
Crunch.
The man spun in an instant, helmet already halfway to his head in one fluid, practiced motion.
Red hair vanished beneath cold steel.
"…It's you."
His voice dropped, shoulders easing a fraction. "Don't scare me like that. Thought it was the damn cat again."
Then his gaze sharpened, taking in the sight of her fully: long gray cloak, hood raised to shadow her face, bare feet pale and vulnerable against the dark floorboards.
"…Why are you dressed like a ghost in the middle of the night?"
She bowed stiffly—formal, brittle, the way she'd been taught long ago in places that no longer existed.
"I have… a request."
"Request?" He snorted, turning back to the boots. "It's past bedtime, kid. Come back tomorrow."
He waved her off with one gauntleted hand and resumed polishing, humming a tuneless, contented melody under his breath.
The girl didn't move.
The armored man let out a long, theatrical sigh that echoed inside the helm.
"Fine. After I finish maintenance. Five minutes. Don't touch anything."
He continued his work with careful reverence, turning each boot slowly in the light, checking for the tiniest scratch.
She waited in perfect, patient silence, arms wrapped around herself beneath the cloak.
At last he set the boots down on the desk like fragile glass and turned fully to face her.
"Alright. Clock's ticking. What's the request? If it's stupid, I'm kicking you out. No negotiations."
The girl drew a slow, trembling breath.
Took one deliberate step forward into the lamplight.
"Please—"
Her fingers found the clasp at her throat, cold against her skin.
"—kill me."
The air in the room seemed to freeze solid.
The armored man turned slowly, the movement deliberate, heavy.
"…Come again?"
The cloak slipped from her shoulders and pooled on the floor in a soft gray heap.
She stood naked in the silver moonlight that poured through the narrow window, skin ghostly pale, eyes hollow and empty, like twin wells that had long since run dry.
"My blessing doesn't work on you.
You can do it.
You're the only one who can touch me without dying.
So please—"
"Put. Your clothes. Back. On."
His voice was flat steel, each word edged.
She didn't move.
"You can do anything you want with this body first.
Use it however you like.
Then kill me.
That's the deal. I won't fight. I won't scream."
He stared for one long, terrible second, the silence stretching taut.
Then he surged to his feet so violently the chair toppled backward with a resounding crash.
"Listen very carefully."
He closed the distance in two strides until the cold visor was inches from her face, close enough that she could hear the faint hiss of his breath behind the metal.
"I don't know what hell you crawled out of.
I don't know what monsters shaped you into thinking this is okay.
But I am not your executioner.
And I am definitely not touching a child—not like that, not ever."
Her voice cracked, thin as winter air.
"…I'm not a child.
Not anymore.
And I'm tired.
Every single day hurts.
The curse burns under my skin.
No one can touch me.
No one can help me.
You're the only one who can end it. Please. I'm begging you."
Tears welled, sliding down her cheeks, but her expression remained blank, carved from ice.
His gauntlet rose.
She flinched hard, eyes squeezing shut, waiting.
Instead of striking, he snatched the fallen cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders—rough, quick, but careful not to let the cold metal linger too long against her bare skin.
"Death's easy," he said quietly, almost gently. "Living's harder.
You're doing the hard thing right now, whether you see it or not."
He guided her to sit on the edge of the bed, firm but not forceful, then crouched so their eyes met through the narrow visor slit.
"I'm not killing you.
Not tonight.
Not ever.
That's final. No debate."
Her hands shook beneath the cloak, fingers twisting in the fabric.
"…Then I'm still trapped. Forever."
"No."
His voice softened, just a fraction, the gruffness giving way to something raw. "You're just not dead.
There's a difference. A big one."
He straightened to his full height, armor creaking.
"Now go to bed.
Tomorrow you're learning how to cast Heal without wanting to die afterward.
We'll figure the rest out later. One step at a time."
She clutched the cloak tighter, knuckles white.
Stared at the floorboards.
Her voice was the smallest whisper, almost lost in the quiet.
"…Why are you kind to me?"
He paused at the doorway, already slipping back into sleepy grumpiness.
"Because shutting up and dying is boring.
And I hate boring."
He hesitated, then added softer, almost to himself: "And because you deserve better than whatever garbage the world taught you."
He left, door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.
The girl sat on the bed a long time, unmoving.
Then, slowly, she pulled the cloak tighter around herself, burying her face in the rough wool.
And for the first time since memory began, she fell asleep without praying that morning would never come.
Outside in the dark hallway, the armored man leaned his back against the cold stone wall.
He rubbed the side of his helmet as though it ached, gauntlet scraping metal.
Muttered to the empty corridor:
"…Damn it.
Now I really have to fix this.
All of it."