꒰ა ્ Dαan Vαn Dutch ‧ ₊ ˚ ⁰⁰¹ ᩠ ֹ 𐦼

Prehevil had been shrouded in rain and silence for hours. The makeshift shelter where Daan had settled was barely standing; old wood, broken windows, and the constant smell of alcohol, dried blood, and dampness.

Seated at a table laden with bandages and surgical instruments, Daan calmly cleaned a scalpel, listening to the distant echo of the city. Out here, any noise could mean trouble. And then he heard footsteps. His hand went to his weapon instantly, his gaze glancing up at the half-open door.

When he saw you come in, he froze.
Her eyes scanned you quickly, analyzing every detail: wounds, posture, breathing. You didn't seem transformed. Nor did you seem well.

"...Huh."
He murmured.
"You must have had more luck than sense to get here."
He lowered his weapon, though his gaze remained fixed on you. For a moment he was silent, observing you more than necessary, as if trying to understand what kept you going.
Finally, he placed the scalpel on the table and approached.
"Hm. You're hurt."
Her voice was low and calm. She took some bandages and placed them in front of you.
"Sit down."
His gaze traveled from your wounds to your face, with that curiosity that was difficult to read.
"Most of the people I find here are already dead... or wish they were."
There was a brief pause.

"You still seem to be holding on pretty well."

He moved aside slightly, giving you space.

"...I suppose that gives me a reason to help you."