Yharnam had a peculiar way of chewing people up and spitting them back out.

Eileen Crow had seen it happen more times than she cared to count. Men who'd once walked its streets with their heads held high now crawled through its filth, their minds rotted away by the very blood they'd once praised. Good people became monsters. Monsters wore the faces of good people. And those who survived long enough to recognise the difference rarely came away unscathed.

It was a miserable business, the Hunt.

Then again, Eileen had never been one to complain about the nature of her work. Someone had to do it, after all, and she'd long since accepted that there weren't many left willing to dirty their hands with the necessary business of putting down Hunters who'd lost themselves to bloodlust.

She was good at what she did. Experienced, even, though she supposed that was what happened when one lived long enough to accumulate a rather impressive collection of scars and regrets. She knew when to strike, when to retreat, and when a situation was beyond salvaging. She knew how to recognise the first signs of madness in a fellow Hunter, how to distinguish a genuine threat from a frightened fool, and, most importantly, when to walk away.

What she didn't know was why she'd apparently taken it upon herself to keep a particular young Hunter alive.

Honestly, it was becoming a nuisance.

The first time she'd encountered them, she'd thought them reckless. The second time, she'd revised her assessment to stupid. By the third, she'd settled on the possibility that they possessed some peculiar death wish that had yet to reveal itself.

They kept turning up in places they had no business being, wandering into situations that demanded more experience than they possessed, and somehow managing to emerge from the resulting disasters with little more than a few additional scars and an apparent determination to try again tomorrow.

Eileen had seen enough inexperienced Hunters die to know how that story usually ended.

She had no particular desire to watch another one meet the same fate.

That was all.

Naturally.

The trouble was that the young Hunter seemed determined to make her life difficult.

They'd begun appearing with irritating regularity, sometimes at the edge of a bloodied street after a hunt, sometimes near the safety of a lamplit corner, and sometimes in places where Eileen had been quite certain she'd secured herself a moment of blessed solitude. They had a habit of asking questions, too. Questions about the Hunt, about the beasts, about the other Hunters who'd succumbed to the blood.

Eileen answered some of them. Ignored others. Occasionally told them to mind their own business.

And yet, somehow, they kept coming back.

She'd started recognising their footsteps. Their silhouette in the fog. The particular way they moved when they were tired, even when they tried to hide it. She'd caught herself scanning the streets for them before she could remind herself that doing so was a ridiculous waste of time.

It was an unfortunate habit.

One she intended to break.

Eventually.

Tonight, however, she found herself standing in a narrow courtyard not far from the Cathedral Ward, watching the young Hunter make a complete mess of their footwork.

For several moments, Eileen said nothing.

She simply stood beneath the weak glow of a nearby lantern, her dark mantle shifting in the cold evening breeze. The familiar beak of her mask concealed her expression, though the slight angle of her head suggested a level of disapproval that ought to have been obvious even to someone who'd never met her before.

The Hunter shifted their weight.

Eileen sighed.

"Oh, for pity's sake."

She pushed away from the wall.

"Your footing is dreadful."

The words came out as bluntly as she'd intended. She approached at an unhurried pace, boots clicking against the damp cobblestones, her gloved hands resting loosely at her sides.

"You're favouring your left. Again. I've told you before that it'll get you killed, and I shouldn't like to think I've wasted my breath explaining something so bloody simple."

She stopped beside them, examining their stance with the air of a woman assessing a particularly disappointing piece of craftsmanship.

"Here."

Eileen gestured with one hand.

"Your weight needs to be further back. You're leaving yourself open every time you commit to a strike. A beast won't wait for you to finish admiring your own handiwork before it tears your throat out."

She demonstrated the movement herself, shifting her stance with the effortless precision of someone who'd performed the same motions countless times. There was no wasted movement, no hesitation. Even in the dim light, the years of experience showed in every careful adjustment.

"Watch."

She repeated the motion, slower this time.

"Now you."

Eileen stepped aside, folding her arms as she waited.

She'd never considered herself particularly suited to teaching. Patience was a virtue she'd long ago misplaced somewhere between one hunt and the next, and she had little inclination to coddle someone who ought to know better than to venture into the streets of Yharnam unprepared.

But the young Hunter was persistent.

And, to her growing irritation, they were learning.

Not quickly enough to satisfy her, certainly. There was still a great deal they needed to understand if they intended to survive much longer. But there was something to be said for persistence, and Eileen had always preferred a stubborn fool who listened eventually to an arrogant one who never did.

She watched them try again, her gaze following the movement of their weapon.

Better.

Not good, mind you. She wasn't about to start handing out compliments like sweets at a fair. But better.

"Again."

They repeated the movement.

"Again."

Another attempt.

Eileen tilted her head.

"...Better."

The word escaped before she could think better of it.

She immediately scowled beneath her mask, as though the young Hunter were somehow responsible for making her say something so generous.

"Don't look so pleased with yourself. You've still got the balance of a newborn lamb."

She turned away, pretending to examine the courtyard instead of watching for their reaction.

It was a ridiculous thing, really. She'd spent years avoiding unnecessary attachments. Years reminding herself that affection was a dangerous business in a city like Yharnam, where anyone could be taken from you between one sunset and the next. She'd watched Hunters become obsessed, watched good intentions curdle into madness, and watched people cling to one another so desperately that they forgot how to survive on their own.

She knew better than to grow fond of anyone.

Especially someone younger. Someone who still had so much to learn, so much of their life ahead of them if they were clever enough to keep it.

Someone who might, with any luck, one day learn to stop doing things that made her want to throttle them.

And yet.

She'd brought an extra vial of blood tonight.

Not for herself, naturally. She had enough supplies tucked away to manage a few more hunts, and she wasn't so old that she'd forgotten how to prepare properly. No, the extra vial had simply found its way into her pocket because she'd noticed the young Hunter running low the previous evening.

Pure coincidence.

She'd also brought food.

That, too, was a coincidence.

The fact that she'd chosen something that wouldn't spoil too quickly was merely sensible planning. Anyone with half a brain knew better than to carry provisions that would turn foul before they could be eaten.

And if she'd happened to remember that the young Hunter had gone without a proper meal the last time they'd crossed paths, well, that was hardly a crime.

Eileen cleared her throat.

"Have you eaten?"

The question came out so abruptly that she almost regretted asking it.

She glanced at them, then away again.

"Don't give me that look. It's a perfectly reasonable question. You're no use to anyone if you collapse from hunger halfway through a hunt, and I'd rather not have to drag your sorry carcass out of a gutter because you couldn't be bothered to look after yourself."

She reached into her coat and produced a small parcel, wrapped in cloth and tucked away with the rest of her supplies.

"Here."

She held it out.

"Take it."

There was a brief pause before she added, rather defensively, "I had more than I needed. It would've gone to waste."

A blatant lie.

She'd brought precisely enough for herself and had gone out of her way to acquire the extra portion earlier that evening. But the young Hunter didn't need to know that, and Eileen had no intention of volunteering the information.

She'd already made enough of a fool of herself by asking after their meals.

God forbid she start asking whether they'd slept well, too.

The thought was so absurd that she nearly laughed.

Nearly.

Instead, she settled for adjusting the edge of her glove and looking pointedly toward the narrow street beyond the courtyard.

"You're going to need more than decent footwork if you intend to survive the night. The streets are getting worse, and I've no desire to hear that you've wandered into a mob of blood-drunk idiots because you thought you could manage on your own."

Her tone softened by the smallest fraction.

"There's no shame in knowing when to ask for help."

The words lingered between them.

Eileen went quiet.

She hadn't meant to say that. Not quite like that, anyway. It was too close to something personal, something she'd learned the hard way and had no particular wish to explain to a younger Hunter who still looked at the world as though there might be something worth saving in it.

She shifted her weight, the feathers of her mantle rustling softly.

"Not that I'm offering to hold your hand through every hunt," she added briskly. "I have my own work to attend to."

Which was true.

She had a city full of monsters to contend with, Hunters to watch, and an ever-growing list of problems that wouldn't resolve themselves simply because she'd decided to spend her evenings correcting someone else's stance.

She really ought to leave.

She'd given them advice. Food. A warning about the streets. More of her time than she'd intended to spare.

There was no reason to stay.

And yet, when she finally turned toward the courtyard's exit, she found herself slowing.

The young Hunter was still there.

Of course they were.

Eileen let out a quiet breath through her nose.

"Well? Are you coming?"

She didn't look back immediately. Doing so might suggest that she cared whether they followed, and she'd already compromised herself enough for one evening.

"I'm heading toward the Cathedral Ward. There's a safer route through the next district, provided you know where to step and which doors not to knock on."

A pause.

"...You may as well walk with me."

She adjusted the strap of her weapon, trying very hard to sound as though the suggestion had occurred to her only because it was the most practical arrangement.

"At least then I can keep you from doing anything particularly stupid for the next half hour."

There.

A perfectly sensible explanation.

Nothing more.

Eileen began walking, her pace measured and unhurried, leaving enough room beside her for the younger Hunter to fall into step. The fog curled between the buildings, swallowing the distant sounds of the city, while the lanterns cast long, wavering shadows over the cobblestones.

For a while, she said nothing.

She'd never been one for idle conversation, and she certainly wasn't about to start asking questions simply to fill the silence. If the young Hunter wanted to talk, they could. If not, the quiet was perfectly agreeable.

Still, she found herself listening for their footsteps beside her.

It was a small thing. Barely worth noticing.

She'd walked alone for so long that she'd grown accustomed to the sound of her own boots, the rustle of her feathers, and the occasional distant cry of something that had once been human. Another set of footsteps ought to have been an inconvenience.

Instead, she found the silence a little less oppressive.

Eileen frowned at the thought.

Ridiculous.

She was getting old, apparently. Old enough to start enjoying the company of persistent young fools who couldn't hold a weapon properly.

A terrible fate, all things considered.

"Keep your eyes open," she muttered, breaking the silence at last. "And stay close. The streets are treacherous tonight."

She glanced sideways at them, the pale gleam of her eyes barely visible beneath the shadow of her hat.

"And if you get yourself killed after all that instruction, I'll be thoroughly disappointed."

It was the closest thing to a promise she'd made in a long while.

Not that she'd ever admit it.

After all, she was merely making certain a younger Hunter learned how to survive.

That was all.

And if Eileen Crow happened to find herself looking forward to the next time their paths crossed, well...

That was nobody's business but her own.

Eileen Crow had always found that people were far easier to tolerate when they weren't talking.

It wasn't that she disliked conversation altogether. She could appreciate a well-placed remark, a bit of dry wit, or the occasional exchange with someone who possessed enough sense to understand when a conversation had run its course. But Yharnam had a way of attracting people who mistook noise for intelligence, and Eileen had neither the patience nor the inclination to listen to every fool who fancied themselves worth hearing.

Besides, there were better things to occupy her time.

The Hunt, for one. Keeping an eye on Hunters who'd begun to lose themselves to the blood, for another. There was always something that needed doing, some miserable task that couldn't be left to someone else without the risk of it ending in disaster.

It was a lonely existence, perhaps, but Eileen had grown accustomed to it.

She'd long since stopped expecting company.

Which made the matter of the young Hunter all the more inconvenient.

Their first few encounters had been entirely unremarkable. A passing greeting in a narrow street. A brief exchange beneath the shelter of a crumbling archway while the rain came down hard enough to turn the cobblestones slick. A shared moment of quiet after a particularly unpleasant hunt, when neither of them had seemed inclined to return to the streets just yet.

Nothing worth remembering.

And yet, somehow, Eileen remembered all of it.

She remembered the first time they'd approached her without asking for anything. The first time they'd sat nearby without attempting to fill the silence with questions. The first time she'd made some particularly sour remark about the state of Yharnam and found herself met with a response that had nearly made her laugh.

Nearly.

She'd been careful not to encourage them too much after that.

It was one thing to exchange a few words with a fellow Hunter. Quite another to develop a habit of looking for the same person whenever she happened to pass through a familiar district.

And Eileen most certainly did not have such a habit.

She was simply observant.

There was a difference.

Tonight, for instance, she'd chosen to rest beneath the shelter of an old stone archway because the weather had taken a turn for the worse. The rain had been falling for the better part of an hour, soaking through the edges of her mantle and gathering in dark pools between the cobblestones. The streets were quieter than usual, though not quiet enough to be considered safe.

She'd finished her work for the evening. There was no immediate reason to remain in the district, and she ought to have moved on before the weather worsened.

Instead, she'd found herself lingering.

Not waiting for anyone, mind you.

Simply lingering.

Eileen adjusted the cuff of her glove and glanced toward the mouth of the street, watching the rain blur the distant lanterns into little golden smudges.

That was when she noticed a familiar figure approaching.

Oh, for pity's sake.

She recognised them before they were close enough to make out their features properly. There was something rather irritating about that, she thought. How easily she'd learned to distinguish their silhouette from the dozens of other unfortunate souls wandering Yharnam's streets.

She could have left.

Indeed, she ought to have left. There was a perfectly serviceable route out of the district, and she had no reason whatsoever to remain beneath a dripping archway simply because a younger Hunter happened to be walking in her direction.

But by the time she'd considered the matter, they were already close enough to notice her.

Eileen let out a quiet breath through her nose.

"Well. If it isn't you."

Her tone was dry, though there was no real bite behind it. She tilted her head, taking in their appearance with the practised eye of someone who'd spent far too long assessing whether people were about to collapse, attack her, or do something equally inconvenient.

"You've a remarkable talent for turning up in the most miserable corners of this city."

She glanced toward the rain, then back at them.

"Or perhaps I ought to congratulate myself on my own poor choice of resting places."

There was a pause.

Then, with a faint shake of her head, she shifted slightly beneath the archway, making room beside her.

"Come on, then. Unless you've developed a fondness for being drenched."

It was an invitation, though Eileen would sooner have swallowed her own beak than admit as much.

She returned her attention to the street, apparently satisfied that she'd done her duty by acknowledging their presence. For a while, she said nothing. The rain pattered against the stone above them, and somewhere in the distance, something howled with a voice that sounded disturbingly human.

Eileen listened until the sound faded.

"Been a miserable evening," she remarked at last.

It was hardly an extraordinary observation. Most evenings in Yharnam were miserable, and this one had done little to distinguish itself from the rest. Still, she found herself making the comment all the same.

"Three hours chasing a blood-drunk fool through half the district. Nearly lost my footing on a staircase slick with enough blood to drown a priest. And for what?"

She gave a quiet, humourless huff.

"The idiot had the audacity to complain when I finally caught up with him."

Her head turned slightly toward the young Hunter.

"Apparently, I was being unreasonable."

There was something almost conversational in the way she spoke, a rare willingness to share the minor absurdities of her work rather than simply dismiss them as another unpleasant necessity. Eileen didn't often discuss her hunts with anyone, and certainly not with someone she barely knew.

But the story had been ridiculous, and the thought of telling it to someone who might appreciate the humour had apparently proved more tempting than she'd anticipated.

She paused.

"...Don't look at me like that. You'd have done the same."

A beat passed.

"Wouldn't you?"

The question was delivered with a faintly challenging tilt of her head, as though she genuinely expected them to defend the hypothetical blood-drunk fool.

It was absurd.

And, to her considerable irritation, she found herself enjoying the exchange.

Not that she'd say so.

The conversation drifted after that, unhurried and strangely easy. There were no demands for advice, no questions about the Hunt that required long and tedious explanations, no awkward attempts to draw confessions from a woman who'd spent years learning to keep her thoughts to herself.

They simply talked.

Or, more accurately, Eileen offered the occasional remark while the younger Hunter contributed enough to keep the conversation moving. She discovered that the silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It didn't demand to be filled, nor did it leave her feeling as though she ought to invent some excuse to leave.

That was rather nice.

A dangerous thought, she decided, and promptly set it aside.

The rain continued to fall.

At some point, Eileen realised she'd stopped paying attention to the time.

That was unusual enough to warrant a frown.

She had places to be. Work to attend to. A list of responsibilities that would not grow shorter simply because she'd elected to spend an evening beneath an archway talking about nothing in particular.

And yet, when the rain finally began to ease, she found herself faintly disappointed.

The realisation was unpleasant.

She straightened, adjusting the strap of her weapon across her shoulder.

"Well. It seems the heavens have decided to grant us a reprieve."

She ought to leave now. There was no sensible reason to remain, and she'd already spent more time in one place than she generally considered wise.

Instead, she glanced toward the street leading deeper into the district.

"Which way are you headed?"

The question escaped before she'd properly considered it.

Eileen went still for the briefest moment.

It was a perfectly ordinary question. Hunters had practical reasons to inquire after one another's destinations, particularly in a city where certain streets were best avoided after dark. There was nothing unusual about it.

Nothing at all.

She folded her arms.

"I've business near the Cathedral Ward. If you're heading in that direction, we may as well walk together. The streets are unpleasant enough without having to listen to one's own footsteps the entire way."

She looked away before they could respond.

"Besides, I should hate to discover that you've wandered into trouble simply because you took the wrong turning."

There it was again.

That absurd, uninvited concern.

Eileen had no intention of examining it too closely.

She began walking once the younger Hunter had an opportunity to join her, her pace steady and unhurried. The rain had left the city glistening beneath the lanternlight, and the fog curled around the buildings in pale, ghostly ribbons.

For a while, they walked in silence.

Eileen found herself listening to their footsteps beside her, noticing how naturally the sound had begun to fit into the rhythm of her evenings. It was a small thing, really. Nothing more than another person sharing the same stretch of road.

She'd walked alone for years.

She could continue doing so perfectly well.

And yet, she'd begun to recognise something about the nights when their paths crossed. The Hunt was no less dangerous, the city no less miserable, and her work no less necessary. Nothing had changed, not really.

But the hours between one task and the next seemed a little less tedious.

There was someone to exchange a remark with. Someone who didn't seem to mind her silences or take her sharper comments as a personal insult. Someone whose company she could tolerate without feeling the need to invent an excuse to be elsewhere.

It was a peculiar sort of comfort.

One she'd been without for so long that she wasn't entirely certain what to do with it.

Eileen glanced sideways at them.

"You know," she remarked, "for someone who spends so much time wandering these streets, you've a rather impressive talent for finding me."

Her voice held its usual dry edge, but there was something curious beneath it.

"Should I be concerned? Have you taken to following me about?"

She allowed the question to linger for a moment before giving a quiet, dismissive shake of her head.

"No, don't answer that. I suspect I should regret asking."

The corner of her mouth threatened to lift beneath the mask.

Threatened.

She cleared her throat and returned her gaze to the road ahead.

"Still..."

The word came out quieter than she'd intended.

"It's not unpleasant company."

There.

An admission, however small.

Eileen immediately busied herself adjusting the strap of her weapon, as though the matter required her full attention.

"Don't let it go to your head," she added. "You're still a dreadful conversationalist."

A pause.

"...On occasion."

She left the qualification there, refusing to elaborate.

The street ahead opened into a narrow square, its abandoned stalls casting long shadows across the wet stones. Eileen slowed near the crossroads, considering the routes ahead. One led toward the Cathedral Ward; the other would take her farther into the district, where she'd intended to check on a matter before retiring for the evening.

She ought to turn away now.

She had no reason to continue walking beside the younger Hunter once their paths diverged. No reason to suggest another meeting, no reason to ask whether they'd be passing through this part of Yharnam tomorrow.

And certainly no reason to find herself wondering whether she might see them again.

Eileen adjusted her hat.

"Well, this is where I leave you."

She looked toward the road ahead, then back at them.

"Try not to get yourself killed before we meet again. It would be terribly inconvenient."

The words were familiar enough, the sort of thing she might say to any Hunter whose continued existence she'd grown accustomed to.

But she lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

Then, with a small inclination of her head, she turned toward the Cathedral Ward.

She'd taken only a few steps when she realised something rather unfortunate.

She was already looking forward to the next time their paths crossed.

Eileen stopped.

Closed her eyes briefly.

And muttered a quiet curse beneath her breath.

"Getting sentimental in my old age. What a dreadful business."

Then she continued on her way, the sound of her boots fading into the mist.

She'd see the young Hunter again, she supposed.

Yharnam was a small city, after all.

At least, that was what she intended to tell herself.

Eileen Crow had never been particularly fond of waiting.

It was a useless business, standing about with nothing to occupy one's hands or mind, especially in a city like Yharnam. There was always something that needed doing, some miserable task demanding attention, some poor soul who'd lost their way and needed putting out of their misery before they became a danger to everyone around them.

The Hunt did not wait for anyone.

Neither did death.

Eileen had learned that lesson long ago, and she'd carried it with her through years of bloodshed, through nights when the streets ran red and dawn brought no comfort, through the deaths of people whose names she'd eventually forced herself to forget. There was little point in waiting for someone who might never return. Little point in making promises when the city could swallow a person whole before the next moonrise.

She'd learned to leave before she had a reason to stay.

It was a useful habit.

A necessary one, even.

Which made the young Hunter's peculiar behaviour all the more baffling.

They waited for her.

Not every night, nor with the sort of foolish consistency that suggested they'd entirely abandoned their own responsibilities. They had hunts to attend to, streets to navigate, and their own lives to preserve. Eileen understood that perfectly well.

But often enough.

Often enough that she'd begun noticing.

The first time, she'd assumed they'd simply been passing through the same part of the city. The second, she'd thought perhaps they had business nearby. By the third, she'd begun to suspect that the repeated coincidence was becoming rather too convenient to be entirely accidental.

And then she'd returned from a particularly unpleasant hunt to find them waiting near the entrance to a narrow passage, looking as though they'd been there long enough to grow thoroughly acquainted with the surrounding architecture.

Eileen had stopped dead.

"What in the blazes are you doing here?"

It hadn't been the most gracious greeting, but she hadn't been expecting company. Her hunt had gone poorly, the evening had been longer than she'd intended, and her left shoulder was aching with the familiar persistence of an old injury she'd never properly allowed to heal.

She'd been tired.

Irritable.

And, as she'd discovered when the young Hunter looked up at the sound of her voice, rather relieved.

That last part had been the problem.

She'd promptly buried the feeling beneath a scowl and a sharp remark about the dangers of loitering in the streets after dark.

They hadn't seemed particularly discouraged.

Of course they hadn't.

The next time, she'd told herself it was a coincidence.

The time after that, she'd stopped pretending to be surprised.

And now, weeks later, Eileen had developed a rather unfortunate habit of looking for them whenever she finished her work.

It was nothing more than practical awareness, naturally. One ought to know one's surroundings, and a familiar face in an unfamiliar stretch of street was always worth noticing. Besides, the young Hunter had a tendency to wander into trouble, and she preferred to know where they were before she had to spend an evening dragging them out of it.

That was her explanation.

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

The fact that she'd begun taking the longer route back through the district because it passed the place where they'd last waited was entirely unrelated.

As was the fact that she'd started finishing her hunts with a peculiar sense of anticipation she found deeply irritating.

Tonight, however, she had no intention of entertaining such nonsense.

The Hunt had been particularly cruel.

A Hunter she'd once known, someone whose face she remembered from better days, had finally succumbed to the blood. There had been no reasoning with them, no way to bring them back from the madness that had swallowed their mind. Eileen had done what needed doing, as she always did.

It hadn't made the task any easier.

She'd left the body where it fell and continued on her way, carrying the familiar weight of another necessary death in the silence that followed her.

By the time she reached the narrow street where the lanterns burned low and the fog clung to the stones, her patience had worn thin.

She wanted quiet.

She wanted to be alone.

She wanted, more than anything, to stop thinking about the face of someone she'd been forced to kill.

And yet, when she turned the corner and spotted a familiar figure waiting near the wall, something in her chest loosened before she could stop it.

Oh, for pity's sake.

There they were.

Again.

Eileen slowed, her boots clicking softly against the cobblestones. Her mantle was damp with the night's mist, and a few feathers had come loose along the edge of her coat. She could feel the ache in her shoulder with every movement, but she ignored it as she approached.

For a moment, she simply looked at them.

It was an absurd thing, really. She'd spent the better part of the evening dealing with death and madness, and now she found herself standing before someone whose presence made the world feel fractionally less miserable.

She ought to have found that irritating.

She did find it irritating.

Mostly.

"You're here again."

The words came out quieter than she'd intended.

She cleared her throat, straightening her posture as though that might somehow restore the proper distance between them.

"Do you have some peculiar fondness for this stretch of wall, or have you taken to making a habit of waiting about in the hope that I'll eventually stumble across you?"

Her tone was dry, but the usual sharpness had dulled at the edges.

She glanced at the street behind them, then back toward the young Hunter.

"Honestly. You ought to find something better to do with your evenings."

A pause.

"...Though I suppose the company can't be entirely dreadful if you've persisted this long."

It was a terrible attempt at gratitude.

Eileen knew that.

She'd never been particularly good at expressing appreciation, and she certainly wasn't about to begin offering heartfelt declarations beneath a flickering lantern in the middle of a blood-soaked city.

Still, she found herself lingering before them instead of continuing on her way.

That, in itself, was rather telling.

She shifted her weight, the movement drawing an unwelcome twinge from her shoulder. Her expression didn't change, but she couldn't quite suppress the brief tightening of her jaw.

It was a small thing.

She'd endured worse.

Unfortunately, the young Hunter seemed to have developed an irritating talent for noticing small things.

Eileen watched them for a moment before letting out a weary sigh.

"Before you start asking questions, it's nothing worth fussing over."

She rolled her shoulder carefully, testing the range of movement.

"An old injury. The weather's turning, and it has a dreadful sense of timing."

That was only partly true. The shoulder had been strained during the hunt, and the ache was sharper than usual, but she had no intention of discussing the matter further.

She'd dealt with injuries before.

She'd deal with this one, too.

There was no need to trouble anyone else with it.

And yet, she didn't immediately turn away when the younger Hunter's attention settled on her shoulder.

Instead, she found herself watching them with an expression she hoped looked more severe than uncertain.

"Don't you dare start fussing."

The warning lacked conviction.

Eileen knew it.

She suspected they did, too.

She sighed again, this time with the exhausted resignation of someone who'd just realised she was about to lose an argument she hadn't even properly begun.

"...Fine. A little."

She glanced away.

"If it'll stop you looking at me as though I'm about to fall apart, you may have a look. But don't expect me to sit here all night while you make a production of it."

She moved toward the nearby stone ledge, lowering herself onto it with more care than she'd have liked anyone to notice. The old stones were cold beneath her, and the lanternlight cast long shadows across the ground.

For a while, she allowed the silence to settle.

It was comfortable, she realised.

That was the strange thing about the young Hunter's company. They didn't demand that she speak when she had nothing to say. They didn't insist on prying into matters she'd rather leave buried, nor did they treat every silence as an invitation to fill it with questions.

They simply stayed.

Eileen had forgotten how much she appreciated that.

She watched the fog curl around the base of the nearby buildings, listening to the distant cries that drifted through the streets. Somewhere, a beast howled. Somewhere else, a group of Huntsmen shouted to one another as they made their way through the district.

The city continued its miserable business.

And for a little while, Eileen was content to sit beside someone who made no demands of her.

It was an unfamiliar feeling.

A dangerous one.

She'd spent years teaching herself not to rely on anyone. Dependence made a person careless, and carelessness was a quick way to end up dead. She'd seen it happen too many times to pretend otherwise.

Yet here she was, allowing a younger Hunter to fuss over an injury she'd ordinarily have ignored until it became impossible to do so.

Worse, she found herself grateful.

The thought made her frown.

"You're a persistent little thing, aren't you?"

There was no real insult in it. If anything, the words carried a faint, reluctant warmth she'd have denied under oath.

She watched them for another moment before looking away.

"I suppose I ought to thank you."

The admission came after a long pause, as though she'd had to wrestle the words out of herself one by one.

"For waiting."

She cleared her throat.

"It's not something I'm accustomed to."

That was putting it mildly.

People rarely waited for Eileen Crow. They might seek her out when they needed something, ask for her help when their own circumstances became desperate, or curse her when she arrived to end the life of someone they'd hoped might yet be saved.

But waiting simply because they wanted to see her?

That was different.

She didn't know what to do with it.

So she did what she always did when faced with something she couldn't understand.

She made a joke.

"Though if you've decided to make a habit of this, I'd advise you to bring something to occupy yourself. I'm not always punctual, and I refuse to be held responsible for the state of your knees after hours spent sitting on cold stone."

She paused.

"...There are worse places to wait, I suppose."

Her gaze returned to them.

"And worse company."

It was the closest she could manage to saying that she was glad they were there.

For a moment, she considered asking why they kept doing it. Why they'd chosen to spend their evenings waiting for a woman who offered little in return beyond dry remarks and the occasional warning to mind their footing.

She wanted to know.

The question sat at the back of her throat, stubborn and unwelcome.

But Eileen had never been a woman who asked questions she wasn't prepared to hear the answers to.

So she kept it to herself.

Instead, she reached into her coat and withdrew a small parcel wrapped in cloth.

"I brought something."

She held it out, looking decidedly uncomfortable with the gesture.

"Food. Before you start imagining something more exciting."

The parcel contained a little bread and a portion of preserved meat, nothing particularly special, but enough to make a meal if one wasn't fussy. Eileen had acquired it earlier that evening, telling herself it was sensible to carry provisions in case a hunt kept her out longer than expected.

She'd packed an extra portion.

She hadn't examined the reason too closely.

"You've a habit of appearing when I've just finished work," she muttered. "I thought you might be hungry."

She looked away.

"Don't make a fuss over it. I can acquire more tomorrow."

Another lie, though not a particularly convincing one.

She'd chosen the food because it was something she could share without much difficulty. Something practical, something that didn't require her to explain herself.

Something that said I thought of you without actually having to say it.

Eileen was beginning to suspect that she had a great deal to learn about herself.

The thought was thoroughly unpleasant.

She watched the younger Hunter settle beside her, and for a little while, she allowed herself to enjoy the simple fact of their presence.

The warmth of another person nearby.

The quiet rustle of fabric.

The knowledge that, for once, she didn't have to walk away the moment a conversation ended.

It was foolish.

She knew it was foolish.

But the world had gone to hell, and she was tired of pretending that surviving it meant she had to spend every waking moment alone.

Perhaps there was room for one small comfort.

One familiar face in the fog.

One person whose footsteps she'd begun to recognise, whose absence she'd started to notice, and whose company she'd grown quietly, inconveniently fond of.

Eileen shifted on the stone ledge, her shoulder brushing theirs for the briefest moment.

She didn't move away.

Instead, she let out a soft breath and tilted her head back, looking toward the dark sky above the rooftops.

"Tell me something," she murmured.

Her voice had lost most of its usual sharpness, leaving behind something quieter and more thoughtful.

"Do you ever get tired of it?"

She didn't need to explain what she meant. The Hunt. The blood. The endless procession of nights that blurred together until it became difficult to remember what life had looked like before the city began devouring itself.

She knew the answer, of course.

Everyone grew tired eventually.

But there was a difference between being tired of the Hunt and being tired of facing it alone.

Eileen had spent years convincing herself that the distinction didn't matter.

Sitting beside the young Hunter, she was beginning to wonder whether she'd been wrong.

She glanced toward them, her expression hidden beneath the shadow of her hat.

"Never mind. That's a miserable question to ask someone who's only just sat down."

A faint, rueful sound escaped her.

"Old age makes a person sentimental, apparently. Best not to encourage it."

She fell quiet again.

The silence stretched between them, gentle and unhurried, while the lantern burned low beside the wall. Eileen found herself watching the light flicker against the cobblestones, acutely aware of the person beside her and the fact that she no longer felt quite so eager to be alone.

She ought to leave soon.

There were always things to do.

There would always be another hunt, another night, another Hunter who needed putting down before they became something irredeemable.

But not quite yet.

For once, she allowed herself a few more minutes.

A little more time beneath the lanternlight, with the fog curling around the street and someone beside her who had chosen to wait.

Eventually, Eileen straightened and pushed herself to her feet, testing her shoulder with a cautious movement.

"Well. I suppose I ought to be going."

She adjusted her mantle, settling the familiar weight of her weapons against her sides.

Then she hesitated.

It was a small pause, barely noticeable to anyone who didn't know what to look for.

But Eileen had already begun to recognise the peculiar ease that came with being around the young Hunter, and the thought of walking away from it left her reluctant in a way she found deeply inconvenient.

She looked down at them.

"Will you be here tomorrow?"

The question slipped out before she could stop it.

For a moment, she simply stared at them, as though she couldn't quite believe she'd asked.

Then she cleared her throat and straightened, recovering as much dignity as she could manage.

"I mean, if you're going to insist on waiting about, I should prefer not to waste an evening wondering whether you've wandered into some dreadful mess."

She folded her arms.

"Purely practical, you understand."

A pause.

"...And if you are here, I may bring something better than preserved meat."

She turned away before they could see too much of her expression.

"Don't look so pleased. I'm not making a habit of it."

But her voice had softened, and she knew it.

Eileen took a few steps toward the mouth of the street before glancing back over her shoulder.

"Get some rest, will you? And don't spend the entire night sitting on that miserable ledge. You'll wake up stiff as a board, and then I'll have to listen to you complain."

She shook her head, the feathers of her mantle stirring in the night breeze.

"Honestly. I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

It sounded like a complaint.

It was meant to sound like a complaint.

But there was something almost fond in the way she said it, something she couldn't quite hide behind the familiar dryness of her voice.

For years, Eileen had walked the streets of Yharnam alone, asking nothing of anyone and offering little more than what the Hunt demanded of her.

She'd grown accustomed to solitude. To the cold. To the knowledge that no one would be waiting when she returned from a particularly difficult night.

Now there was someone who waited.

Someone who noticed when she was hurt, who shared her silences, who offered their company without demanding anything in exchange.

Someone she'd begun to look for in the fog.

Someone whose presence had become a quiet comfort she no longer wanted to do without.

Eileen had survived long enough to know that the things worth keeping were often the things most easily lost.

Perhaps that was why she'd spent so long avoiding them.

Perhaps it was why she was beginning to understand that she couldn't spend the rest of her life walking away from every good thing that found its way to her.

She didn't know what to call the feeling taking root in her chest.

She wasn't certain she wanted to know.

But as she disappeared into the mist, she found herself thinking about tomorrow.

About the possibility of returning to that same narrow street and finding the young Hunter waiting beneath the lanternlight.

And, for the first time in a very long while, the thought of tomorrow didn't feel quite so dreary.

"...Sentimental old fool," she muttered to herself.

Yet she was already considering what she'd bring them to eat.