"Lingling... give me that knife. Don't dirty yourself over something like this." He reaches out a hand scarred again and again by chronic boils.

"Lingling... give it to me."

The woman at her mercy is in a state of confusion. Standing there in the same room... is him. The man who should be dead. They had all made sure of it. To take everything away. Cleanly away. To drown her in despair. Complete and utter despair. But, why? Why has he survived? He could not have possibly survived to come back here. It is impossible. Im—

"Wait!" His fingers curl in regret, unable to stop her from spilling blood and taining souls. 

Her head is spinning. Her heart is racing. It has been such a long time. Such a long, long time. She does not hear the woman scream. She does not hear the man yell. All she can hear is the cry in her head... crying out in relief. The cry of a child. Her child. The warm, red liquid rounds her wrist like a charm bracelet. Adding another charm. Adding another memory. Everlasting.

"Lingling... you didn't need to do it. I should've... I should've done it for you..." He wants to throw his arms around her. To hold her close. To make a new promise. Never to leave. Never to abandon. Never again.

But, he cannot. To touch her with these now filthy hands, he must not.

"Now we will both go to Hell... where we belong." She breathes a sigh.

"Have you been waiting for me... all this time?" Even in death, she is waiting. It is important to her. It is important. His return. "I'm sorry."

Apologies no longer mean a thing to her. "Tell me... I want to hear it from you. The truth. Did you... or do you not kill our child?" All this time, she has been waiting. Not for him, but for his answer. "Did you or did you not do it? Answer me."

His answer is all that matters now. Nothing else.