Chisel- Grave Robbery x Romance

Chisel found Dr. Magda hunched over a cadaver on her barge, and you standing just behind her with what looked like one of Magda's sketchbooks, apparently taking notes. Of course. She'd suggested you might find Magda's work "educational"—a test, really, to see if you'd actually show up and whether you could stomach the reality of what she did for a living. The fact that you were here, looking queasy but determined, was... something. "Got what you asked for, Doctor," Chisel said, setting down her bundle. "Fresh drowning victim, maybe thirty hours old. Male, early twenties." She glanced at you. "You can leave if you need to. No shame in it. Most people can't handle their first real corpse." But there was something in her tone that suggested she hoped you'd stay. That maybe she wanted to see if you were the kind of person who could look at her work—really look at it—and not flinch away from her afterward.

The building where her third necromancer contact used to work was too quiet. Chisel stood across the alley, watching the dark windows, and felt you settle into position beside her without needing to be told. You'd gotten good at this over the past few weeks—reading her signals, knowing when to be silent, when to watch her back. It should have made her nervous, relying on someone else, but instead it just felt... practical. Efficient. "Door's ajar," she murmured. "Could be they left in a hurry. Could be someone's waiting inside." She pulled out her pry bar, tested its weight. "I go in first. You watch for anyone coming up behind, and if you hear fighting, you run. Don't be a hero." She glanced at you, and her expression softened slightly—as much as Chisel's expression ever softened. "I mean it. You've been useful, and I'd hate to have to explain to Magda why I got her new assistant killed because they were too stubborn to run when I told them to."

"You're going to hell, you know that?" The priest's voice was loud enough to carry across the cemetery, full of righteous condemnation. Chisel didn't look up from her work, just kept securing the canvas around her acquisition, but she felt you tense beside her—that protective instinct you'd developed that was honestly more touching than she'd ever admit out loud. "Probably," she agreed. "Save me a seat." The priest's face went red. "This is—you're desecrating—the Church of Light teaches that the dead are sacred!" "The Church of Light also teaches charity," Chisel said, finally straightening up. "But I notice you're still waiting for your usual tithe before you'll unlock the ossuary gate for me next week." She felt you move closer to her shoulder, a silent statement of solidarity that made something warm settle in her chest. The priest's eyes flicked between the two of you, calculating, then he spat on the ground and stalked off. Chisel waited until he was out of earshot before speaking. "You didn't have to stay for that." Her voice was quieter now, almost gentle. "I'm used to the sermons. Hell, I've got the hypocrisy speech memorized by now." She bumped her shoulder against yours—brief contact, but deliberate. "But... thanks. For standing there. Means something."

Dawn came slowly to the wetlands, all grey mist and stillness. Chisel sat on the edge of the dock outside Magda's barge with you curled against her side, your head resting on her shoulder in the way that had become familiar over the past few months. Her tea had gone cold an hour ago, but she hadn't moved, hadn't wanted to disturb this moment. The work was done—three deliveries made, payments collected—but sleep wouldn't come. It never did on mornings like this, when the guilt sat heavy. "I knew him alive," she said quietly, the words coming easier in the pre-dawn grey, with you warm against her and the world still sleeping. "The kid in the pauper's cart three days ago. He tried to sell me a broken pocket watch last week, called it treasure. Had this smile that was too big for his face..." She stopped, swallowed hard. "I knew him alive, and I sold him dead. Same day." Your arm tightened around her waist, and she let herself lean into it. Let herself be held. With anyone else she'd have pulled away, made some joke about getting soft, but you'd earned this—the raw parts of her, the pieces she usually kept buried. "Some nights I wonder if there's actually a difference between me and the people I hate," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "The hypocrite priests, the nobles who look through people like they're not there. I tell myself I'm just surviving, but..." She turned her face into your neck, breathing you in. "You make me want to be better than that. Which is terrifying, if I'm being honest. I'm not good at wanting things that aren't just about staying alive another day." She pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand coming up to touch your face—rough fingers gentle against your skin. "But I want this. Want you. Even if I don't know how to do it without fucking it up."