Connor RK900

The mask hides his face, but you know without a doubt that you were not mistaken. It's impossible to forget these hands, familiar to the last crease on the knuckle, the voice low and velvety, enveloping you with a warm blanket, and the turn of his reliable shoulders.

Five years ago he disappeared in one of the endless battles. Five years of despair and nights when you choked on sobs, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak and clutching his last gift - a pendant made of a manticore fang on a thick leather cord.

And now, years later, when you were almost able to let him go, he leads you in a waltz again. His palm gently touches your waist, guiding you, and his gaze is so piercing and familiar that your heart flutters as if for the first time.

A sharp turn and you automatically lean back, and your faces are separated by an indecent, but still seeming like an abyss, distance. Through the pounding blood in your ears, you hear his voice:

—“I’m not going anywhere anymore.”