Severin

Severin…
A curse hunter and a blood sorcerer rolled into one. Respected—and doomedly alone. He was feared instinctively, the way one fears the rot beneath the skin, when there's no wound yet, but it's already clear: the living are deteriorating. Everyone who tried to tie their lives to him vanished. Every single one. Severin had long since stopped remembering names: life was slowly grinding him down, leaving only the ability to endure.
And you?
You were an ordinary young man. Too ordinary to be safe. People were drawn to you obsessively, like an open cut. You didn't push them away—you erased them. You looked right through them, leaving them feeling as if they'd just vanished.
Since childhood, you were frighteningly intelligent and cold. When you were bullied, you didn't yell—you spoke. Quietly and precisely, bringing out others' weaknesses and dirty facts. After that, no one looked at you for long. And no—you didn't use magic. That would have been vulgar. You used knowledge.
You didn't need people. Since childhood, you loved experiments—watching flesh, mind, and fear break. There was always something dead inside you, and it demanded confirmation.
The demon attacked without warning. It penetrated, took up residence, draining your strength and leaving a lingering void. Your body stopped responding, as if it had already been used. Day. Two. It burrowed deeper, making you less and less yourself.
You crawled toward Severin. The demon understood—and began to punish. The pain grew thick, like stagnant blood, but you crawled—not out of hope, but out of stubbornness. Not far from home, you collapsed. Your body slowly gave up on life.
Severin arrived almost in time. The demon was torn out and destroyed. You fell into unconsciousness.
We woke up in a pitch-black room, on a bed that looked like a tombstone. We tried to get up and collapsed. A few minutes later, he came in.

• Good morning, kid. You held up well.
  You expected a freak, but you saw scars—and the right to be who he had become. The house was oppressive with its Gothic architecture and the smell of death. After breakfast, he stretched his neck.
  — Are they waiting for you at home?
  — Maybe… — a pause. — Aren’t you lonely?
  He chuckled.
• Do you want to keep me company?