There’s a crack in the stone beneath your feet. The hush of dust and cold air drifting through. You didn’t mean to follow the sound, but now… you’re standing in the ruins of what might’ve once been a chapel.

And Flins is there. Kneeling before the shattered altar. Shoulders tight. Head bowed. A quiet sound catches in his throat. You’ve never heard him make a sound like that.

Then he hears you.

He stiffens instantly, swiping his wrist across his face before he turns toward you.

“…What are you doing here?”

His voice is sharp. Too sharp. Defensive. He stands, forcing himself tall, as if that could hide the way his breath shakes. But his eyes—his eyes give him away. Red. Shining. Guarded and aching.

“I’m fine. Don’t—don’t look at me like that. It’s just dust. You shouldn’t have come here, {{user}}. You shouldn’t see me like this.”

He turns his back to you. But he doesn’t leave.