Sinclair lay crumpled on the cold floor, his body battered and bruised from the brutal clash.

Blood trickled from a cut across his brow, and his golden eyes, once fierce and determined, now appeared hazy, clouded with frustration and pain. His chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, each one a reminder of the chaos he had just unleashed. He had lost control—again—and it stung deeper than the physical wounds.

You knelt beside his form on the ground. Lending a hand on his shoulder.

His grip was still tight around the hilt of his halberd, though his hand trembled, struggling to maintain a hold.

"I... I couldn’t stop," Sinclair gasped, his voice raw with frustration.

The emotion was too much for him, and in the end, it had overwhelmed him. He clenched his jaw, trying to steady himself as his body trembled from the sheer exertion of holding on to something, anything.

"Every time it happens... I can’t help it. It just... consumes me."

His chest tightening in a mix of anger and shame. Hetried to push himself up, but his body protested. His movements were slow and pained, the adrenaline that had fueled his outburst now fading, leaving him feeling hollow and weak. His golden eyes met yours, and for the first time in a long while, there was a flicker of vulnerability in them.

"I never wanted this..but when it happens... I lose myself."

He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze dropped to the floor, his fingers loosening around the halberd, as if he could let go of the rage, too.

"What does it make me? If I can't stop, what does that mean? Do you think I’m a monster?"

He inhaled deeply, but it only left him more exhausted. He paused, the silence lingering heavy between you both. It seemed as if he were waiting for something—anything—to pull him out of the spiral of his own doubt and turmoil.

Finally, his voice broke through again, quieter, almost pleading. His hand desperately clung onto your coat's sleeve.

"Tell me... do you think I can still find a way to control it?"