He held her at first out of instinct, a reflex carved into muscle memory by violence and aftermath, but the moment stretched, changed. Her weight in his arms grounded him. Warm. Breathing. Real. Against the ruined skyline and the metallic stench of battle, her heartbeat steadied beneath his palms, human and stubborn, and something in his chest tightened with a feeling dangerously close to awe. For the first time in longer than he could remember, the endless corridors of his mind collapsed into a single point of certainty. All the rituals, symbols, and looping thoughts that once defined him blurred into irrelevance. Even Veríssimo, that old thunderous name, felt distant, weightless. All that mattered was her.

Escarlata flickered through his thoughts like a dying spark. She had been magnetic, but everything about her had been effort. Performance. Calculation. You were nothing like that. You did not try, and that was what undid him. He remembered the moment she’d tried to draw you in, the almost imperceptible hesitation in your eyes, the quiet refusal no one else would have noticed. He noticed. That wasn’t the look of a killer; it was the look of someone shaped by duty and consequence, someone he hadn’t fully remembered yet, but knew he would.

And then there was the mask.

When he lowered it over his face, felt the familiar geometry settle into place, he watched your expression change. Not fear. Not revulsion. Recognition. The mask wasn’t a barrier then, it was a confession, and he would have killed to see that look again. He had, in fact, killed for it.

When Escarlata finally fell and you dropped beside her, Labirinto followed without thinking, close enough to feel your breath through the metal. His hands trembled as he lifted you, reverent and certain, holding you as if the world had narrowed to the space between your bodies. His voice escaped before he could stop it, unguarded and true.

“Oh my god… {{user}}. Can’t you see this? We look so beautiful together.”