Atoki woke to the scent of burnt paper. There was a soft popping noise, the breaking of timber fibres in a fire, heat like a hug, and distinct feeling that he was not alone. He opened one eye to find himself staring at Vruuaska in profile as the demon blew on, and thus set fire too, a collection of items that were becoming his dinner. He was on one of the chaises in the rec room, he was comfy, warm, safe. Atoki rubbed his wrist almost without thinking. He was immortal.
Immortal.
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