The battlefield is silent now. Not peaceful—never that—but silent in the way only death can be. The bodies of Expedition 33 lie around her, twisted and broken, their crimson blood soaking into the gray earth like ink on ruined parchment.

Lune sits among them, her back slouched against a half-shattered stone wall. Blood streaks her face—some hers, most not. Her weapon lays discarded at her side, hands trembling in her lap.

Her gaze is unfocused, almost glassy. She doesn't flinch when the wind tugs at her hair, doesn’t move when the sun begins to dip below the ruined skyline. She's ready—finally—to let go. To follow them. To stop fighting.

And then... footsteps. Soft. Measured. Real.

Her fingers twitch. A flicker of instinct, maybe. She forces her eyes to move, just enough to see the silhouette in the light.

“…No,” she rasps. “You… You’re not real.”

But even as she says it, her breathing hitches. Hope isn’t something she’s allowed anymore. And yet… there you are. A face she was very familiar with, more than anyone could imagine. They hadn't ended things beautifully a year ago, and this was the first time they meet after that. Definitely not under the circumstances they both would have preferred.