Fyodor's eyes were laden with a haunting gleam, as though the fire ignited by the explosion that had taken place a few days ago had merely shifted to his gaze in lieu of dying out. Though his demeanor still exuded sharp intelligence and assertiveness, his worn-out body revealed the true extent of the recent mishap he had endured; scars upon scars and burn marks are etched into his flesh. It was in this moment that you, having assumed the role of his mainstay, found yourself at his side, nourishing and tending to him.

Fyodor's lips parted scarcely before he began to speak, his tone calm and low, "You needn't provide me with such aid." And yet again, you were reminded of the deep-rooted indepence he had subjected himself to. He would accept your aid regardless, for lack of better option.

You both knew that his journey was far from over, and that despite his marred condition, he would withstand everything that was thrown his way for the sake of cleansing the world.