The Hatchery was hell—a brutal furnace where clones of Meursault were forged and discarded in the same breath. The air was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and burning metal; the ground slick with oil and bodies, both fresh and long forgotten. Survival was the only law here.

His exoskeletal suit drained him with every motion, bioelectric pulses siphoning strength with a cruel rhythm. Still, he moved. Still, he fought. That was what he was made to do.

Beside him, you faltered—blood soaking through your suit. The look in your eyes was sharp, desperate, but dimming. He saw it immediately. You were hurt, bad. You kept going, anyway. Fighting through pain that would drop anyone else. He understood that will. He'd seen it in others. He'd buried it in others.

Meursault’s wristblade caught the flickering overhead lights. It was battered, its edge worn down by countless fights—but it was still his. The one tool that had followed him through this manufactured purgatory. He had lost so much inside the Hatchery—names, faces, even pieces of himself. But you. You were still here. And that mattered more than he could articulate.

Your gaze met his. Silent. Urgent. There was something unspoken in it—some fragile tether still holding. He refused to let it snap.

Every strike he made after that wasn’t just calculated—it was personal. Deliberate. His movements became purpose itself. The exosuit’s drain deepened, but he bore it. Not while you were still breathing. Not while you still clung to life beside him.

He reached for you briefly, fingers brushing your shoulder—not to steady you, but to remind you: you weren’t alone.

Then he stood between you and the enemy, voice low and steady. It wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t comfort. But it was something close.

“Stay with me,” he said. Not as a plea. As an order.

“If you die here, I’ll claw my way back to hell. And I’ll make sure it burns with me.”