ATHAN'S POV
His eyes snapped open grotesque, inhuman and the atmosphere curdled into something suffocating.colour drained from his face, his skin stretched thin and waxy, veins bulging dark and swollen as if something monstrous writhed beneath the surface. His jaw trembled, teeth grinding audibly, and a low, guttural sound escaped his throat half growl, half death rattle.
He staggered forward, the bandages on his legs shredded, revealing flesh that was no longer whole. Blood oozed in thick, blackened rivulets, clinging to his skin like tar. The wound seemed alive, twitching, pulsing, as though it resisted the bindings meant to contain it. His muscles spasmed violently, tearing against themselves, and the stench of rot filled the air, sharp and nauseating.
Every step he took was wrong unnatural, jerking, as if his bones no longer obeyed him. His body was collapsing and mutating all at once, a grotesque parody of life forcing itself forward.
When I reached for him, his body convulsed violently, a guttural sound tearing from his throat that was neither scream nor breath but something monstrous. His touch was ice-cold, his nails clawing at my skin as he tried to shove me back, desperation mingled with a feral strength.
The air itself seemed to recoil, heavy with the stench of iron and decay, and for a moment I wasn't sure if I was holding a man or something far more dreadful that had only borrowed his flesh.
"Stop fighting," I said, with a concern I hadn't realized I possessed. I grabbed bandages and healing potions, wrapping the wound carefully. "If you move, I'll stab you."
The long gash across his leg was deep, jagged, and raw skin torn open as though clawed by something unnatural. Blood seeped steadily, staining the cloth beneath my hands, and every breath he took made the wound flare wider, threatening to spill more of his life onto the floor. His body trembled, sweat slicking his pale skin, and the air carried the sharp, metallic stench of iron.
I pressed harder, forcing the bandages against the wound, my hands shaking between urgency and dread. The potion hissed as it touched the torn flesh, steam curling upward like smoke from a dying fire. He winced, teeth clenched, but said nothing.
For a moment, I wondered if he would survive the night or if the gash was more than just a wound, something cursed, something that would never truly heal.
"So… what's up with your eyes?" I asked carefully.
He paused, his reply low and clipped. "None of your business."
I let it go, though the question lingered in my mind. The silence stretched between us, heavy but unspoken, until he finally said, almost too softly to hear:
"When do I start working?"
"Tomorrow," I answered, steady and deliberate. I expected resistance, some sign of misery, but his expression didn't change. He gave nothing away.
Then, after a moment, he asked, "Your name. What is it?"
I stayed quiet.
"If I'm to work off my debt," he continued, "I should know the name of the one I owe."
I hesitated, then spoke, my voice subdued. "Athan."
At that, his face shifted shock flickering briefly across his features.
"What?" I asked.
"That name…" he murmured, weary. "It sounds familiar."
"I doubt it," I said, calm but firm. "Go to bed."
He lay back, drifting into sleep, and I was left alone with the weight of his words.