The dog’s eyes blinked once, deliberately. A ripple like wind moved through its fur. “Kharon,” it accepted, as if the syllable fit into a place inside it.

“A whisper.” Berz1337’s voice dropped. “A heat at the base of my skull. Sometimes a scent — like burnt sugar. It’s never long enough to stop him. He moves faster than guilt.”

The hellhound’s muscles tensed as if at a command. Slowly, with the grudging patience of a creature placated by respect, it rose and moved to the far corner of the room. It curled, folded its tail, and lowered its head. For the first time since they’d arrived, Berz1337 saw the space between threat and safety.

“Language,” Berz1337 said. “The jokes I use as armor, the sharp edges. If I lose those, maybe I lose the only person who knows how to survive inside me. Maybe I become… soft. And I don’t know who gets to be soft.”

Outside, a tram bell clanged. The hellhound’s chest rose and fell; it did not move.

— end —

Kharon padded closer, pressed his warm muzzle to their palm, and stayed.