The room smelled like rust. Not the harsh, metallic sting of fresh blood, but the stale kind. Old. Faded. Like something had bled out here a long time ago and the walls hadn't quite forgotten.
Riven sat on the edge of a metal cot, shirtless and stained. His skin was a canvas of filth and memory. Dried blood clung to his arms. His legs. The wound on his thigh pulsed dully beneath the crusted red. His hands trembled every few seconds, even when he tried to still them. The chain marks were still visible on his wrists. Like a dog without a leash
The room itself was small. Squared. A single dim bulb swung overhead, flickering now and then like it was debating whether to stay alive. There were no windows. No sunlight. Just the sound of metal tools clinking together on a tray beside the Doctor.
The Doctor didn't speak. Not at first. He moved with practiced hands, sorting through what looked like medical supplies and scrap. Cotton. Cloth. Burn cream. Thread. Bone needles.
Riven looked at his hands again. The way the fingers curled. How the skin broke over his knuckles. A memory stirred behind his eyes.
Chains. Cold ones. Screaming. The sharp tug of metal biting into flesh. The mask. The voice. The laughter that wasn't his.
He blinked.
"What's the difference," he asked, voice low, brittle, "between a Firstborn and a Bound?"
The Doctor paused.
Just like that. Movement halted. Fingers hovered over a spool of gauze, then slowly withdrew. He turned his head, not all the way. Just enough to glance at Riven from the corner of his eye. His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Not quite.
"That's a good question," he said.
He turned fully now. Arms crossed. One brow arched. His coat was loose at the shoulders, the edges frayed, soaked at the sleeves.
"Most don't ask that. Most don't care to. They assume Bound are just stronger. Meaner. Better killers."
He stepped forward. One foot after the other. Slow. Intentional. Like each word had weight.
"But the difference," he said, "isn't physical. It's not just training. It's fusion."
Riven tilted his head, frowning. But the Doctor didn't give him time to speak.
"You wear a mask. You put it on. Use it. Maybe it whispers to you. Maybe it fights back. But it's still a thing you use. Something apart. External."
He stopped near the table. Rested one hand on the cold steel.
"For Bound, it's different. They don't wear the Mask. They become it. Slowly. Painfully. The more they progress, the more the Mask fuses into them. Not just flesh. Not just bone. Soul. Thought. Reflex. It wraps around who they are. And if they're not strong enough to hold it... it consumes them."
A silence fell. The light overhead hummed, flickered once.
Riven stared.
And then the door opened.
No creak. No slam. Just the soft groan of hinges that had been opened too many times before.
A figure stepped through the frame.
The Bound.
He didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge either of them. But his presence was... heavy. Not loud. Not violent. Just there. Like the air shifted to make space for him.
He was tall. Taller than the Doctor. Shoulders wide, posture relaxed but not lazy. He moved like a weapon sheathed in skin. Riven's eyes were drawn to the Mask first.
It was black. Not the faded black of worn leather or soot. This black was smooth. Polished. Almost reflective. It covered the lower half of his face, fitted tight like it had been molded to him.
Two circular canisters jutted from the sides near his cheeks. Thick. Ridged. Like mechanical lungs. They hissed faintly with every breath, a soft rhythmic whisper. The central piece was slightly pleated. Folded. Designed to flex as he moved. As he breathed.
It wasn't decoration. It wasn't armor.
It was part of him.
The Bound's eyes were hidden beneath a hood. But the rest of him was visible. His arms were wrapped in bandages. Tight. Neat. From fingertips to elbow, cloth wound like a cocoon over bruises and cuts that had never been allowed to scar. His legs were the same. Layers of gauze over muscle. Over pain. One section near the thigh was darker. Dried blood.
Riven remembered.
The way the spike tore through flesh. The way the creature pinned them like insects. That wound hadn't come from training. It had come from down there. From the depths. From the spawn that whispered in the dark.
The Bound didn't limp.
He didn't wince.
He stood like a statue carved from breath and rage.
The Doctor didn't react to the arrival. He simply nodded toward a folded bundle of cloth on the table beside him.
"Patch yourself up," he said without looking. "You're still bleeding."
It took Riven a second to realize the words were meant for him.
He looked down again. Blood had started to seep from beneath the old bandages. His right hand, especially. The fingers were raw. Cracked where he had punched the wall. Or maybe it was the floor. He didn't remember.
He rose. Slowly. Legs stiff. Each step scraped pain across his nerves like nails against glass.
He reached for the bundle.
It was nothing fancy. A loose shirt. Pants. Bandages. A small vial of something that smelled like fire and metal. Disinfectant, probably.
He sat back down. Began to wrap.
Left hand first. Palm. Fingers. Wrist. Each circle of bandage tight, secure, white against the angry red beneath. Then the right. Slower. More careful. Blood oozed through in places. But he didn't stop.
Next, his leg. He peeled back the soaked bandage, hissed as air kissed the wound. The metal had gone deep. He remembered the crunch. The sound his bone made when it cracked.
He wrapped it. Gritted his teeth. Pulled tight.
The Bound said nothing. Didn't move. But Riven felt his eyes. Felt them watching.
Not judging.
Just... seeing.
Like he was taking measure.
Like he understood.
And maybe he did.
Because the Bound wasn't fused entirely. Not yet. That was the point. His Mask could still be removed. His soul still tethered to the body that bore it. But the connection was deep. Rooted. Strong enough that the Mask obeyed without resistance. Strong enough that he wouldn't lose himself in a frenzy of power. That was what made the Bound different.
Not their strength.
Their control.
Their submission.
Riven finished bandaging. His fingers were numb. His thigh ached with every beat of his heart.
But he was breathing.
Alive.
And the Bound was still watching.