The ceiling dripped. A slow, infuriating rhythm of moisture squeezing through the cracks, tapping against the dented metal desk like a metronome counting down to nothing.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The whole damn place reeked of mold and old cigarettes, the walls stained with years of half-hearted upkeep, a graveyard of wanted posters curling at the edges, long past relevant.

The Firefist Office.

Once, Gregor thought they’d leave this place behind, trade in the damp concrete walls for something with actual windows, a floor that didn’t groan underfoot, a goddamn coffee machine that didn’t spit out sludge. They'd dreamed of pulling themselves up, out of this hole, but dreams were just smoke. And smoke always faded, leaving behind a devastating truth.

He leaned back in his chair, the ancient thing creaking under his weight. Across the room, the dim yellow light flickered, barely keeping the dark at bay. The soft buzzing of the dying bulb wore on his mind.

He hadn’t slept since the night before they first stepped into that cursed place - since the moment they left her behind. Sleep had become a distant, taunting specter, always just out of reach, always slipping through his fingers like the ashes of what he lost.

The smallest chance that she was still alive carved him open from the inside, hollowing him out until there was nothing left but raw, aching hope... hope that gutted him like a knife, crueler than certainty, crueler than grief.

And the fear - god, the fear - coiled in his lungs, crushed the air from his chest. It wasn’t the terror of facing La Manchaland again, of the Bloodfiends lurking within.

No, it was the thought of finding her.

Finding her, and realizing that death would’ve been kinder.

Gregor's fingers tensed around his gauntlet, the worn metal responding with unfamiliar weight. Across the room, {{user}} stood sentinel by the door.

Neither spoke. Words felt dangerous; a match poised over oil. If they gave their fears a voice, it could hear them.

Maybe it would listen. Maybe it would answer.