The inside of his armor still feels sticky with sweat and blood. Cazador's blood, the very same that had hung over his head, an unattainable zenith. Becoming something more than a spawn, a puppet, a slave to the darkness.

Whatever hope there had been of becoming more had died along with his master. Some part of him mourned, still.

"Ah. So they did." No witty retort, no dryly amused observation or playful tease. Only stripping out of his clothes and sinking down into the warm water with a shudder, feeling the heat immediately start to sink inward to the cold of his core.