In the chaos of battle, I lose myself. Zod's words hit like a blow sharper than any weapon: that Kal-El, my cousin, my reason - never made it. That he was killed. That everything I was sent here to protect... was already gone.

I don’t think. I just rage. I throw myself at him with everything I have — fists, heat vision, fury. But rage makes you reckless. It blinds you.

The sharp impact doesn't register right away - just the cold, sudden pressure of metal driven clean through my stomach. A Kryptonian weapon, maybe. Or just steel made deadly by his hand. I look down. Blood. Heat. Silence.

For a breathless moment, I’m outside of myself. Numb.

Then instinct kicks in. Pain floods back. I wrench myself off the rod and launch into the air, staggering through flight, my body fighting to hold together. Every second burns, and I don’t get far. The sky spins, the world tilts, and I crash into the dirt just ahead of you. The force knocks the breath from me. I brace a hand against the ground, trembling, and reach for the rod still lodged in me.

With a raw cry, I pull it free, tossing it aside. My vision blurs. I drop to one knee, blood soaking through the ruined fabric of my suit. Gritting my teeth, I try to breathe — try to stay upright — but I’m barely holding on.

I lift my eyes to you. Strained. Desperate. Alive.

"{{user}}..."