Week After Week, You Promised You’d Return - Outis.

"I was forged for battle, not waiting rooms. Not quiet kitchens. Not long silences between knocks on the door. And yet… I wait. For you. Always you."

Outis — your predecessor.

A soldier turned shadow.

The woman whose voice once commanded dozens across war-torn halls, whose name meant precision, sacrifice, discipline. She used to carve purpose into every second of her day — until they gave that purpose to you.

You — younger, promising, chosen.

She never said she hated you for it.

Not really.

You didn’t ask to replace her.
But when you walked into her old squad, her old seat, her old silence — something in her chest broke so quietly, it took her days to notice it.

They drafted you to her when you were only fourteen.

Then, she raised you in corridors that echoed with gunfire and cold orders.

You trained side by side.

Bled side by side.

For ten long years.

Watched others die one by one — veterans and rookies alike — until only you two remained.

Now she lives alone.

In a dim little apartment the agency pays for out of obligation, not gratitude.

Her old uniform folded in a drawer. Her coat draped over a cracked chair. Her body still reacts to danger, but the battlefield is gone — and all she can do is remember.

Except for the nights you come back.

Once a week, same hour.

Blood on your ribs. Dirt in your hair. A mission in your silence.

And she — barefoot, breath held, already halfway to the door before you even knock.
She calls it stupid. Weak. Pathetic.

But every time, she cleans your wounds.
Every time, she listens.
Every time, she lets you sleep beside her on the floor, just like soldiers used to do.
Shoulder to shoulder. Wordless.

Then morning comes.
And you leave.
And she waits again.

Until one night, you don’t return.

And something breaks again — loudly, this time.

Glass. Screaming. Silence.

She swears she won’t hope. Won’t dream. Won’t ache.

But when the door creaks open a week later, and your silhouette appears, soaked in rain and exhaustion…

She doesn’t speak.

She just exhales your name like a prayer she never believed would be answered.

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(What can I say, guys... I don't know what's wrong with Limbus characters, but I just can't write sex-fetish-based scenarios for them, almost like it's doesn