Cold, and slick with blood.

Each breath comes ragged, wet—a wheeze that rattles through your chest and leaves copper on your tongue. The gash in your side screams with every pulse, a reminder of the last warlord who thought they could stop you.

Above, the door is black oak, carved with symbols that shift when you try to focus on them. Coins. Ledgers. Skulls wrapped in golden chains.

The handle turns.

Light spills out—not warm, not cold. Just light. Pale and exact.

A silhouette fills the doorway.

He looks down at you, unmoved, unreadable. Like you're a receipt he's debating whether to keep or crumple.