I imagine his conscience pounded on his skull the same way his hammer did when he tried to smash me to smithereens.

I wonder, does he hate himself? Does he hate the fascination and pride glowing beneath his ribs, how clever and smart he felt when realizing he was right? Does he hate that a part of him is still tempted to feed me?

There is nothing more pitiful than self-loathing, I think.

He clutches me to his chest like a newborn babe although if I were one my neck would’ve undoubtedly snapped. He didn’t stumble upon me by dumb luck, he knows these ruins. But I can tell, he was becoming more and more hesitant as each floor became less and less familiar. The noble thing would be to get in as deep as possible, make it impossible for anyone to ever find me even if it meant he himself never got out.

But I know this man.

He pushes.

He pulls.

Farewell, my kindred soul.