A faint, almost breathless laugh escapes him. “…guess you never were good at following orders.”

The brightness around him flickers again sharper this time, unstable. You see it in the way his shoulders tense, the way his hands curl slightly like he’s holding something invisible together by force.

He’s not floating. He’s straining. Holding it.All of it.

“The Void’s getting louder,” he admits quietly, like saying it too loud might make it worse. “Every second I hold this, it pushes harder.” Another pulse of light too bright, then too wrong. He inhales, steadying himself, but it shakes on the way out.

“I can keep it together,” he says, more to reassure you than anything else. “Long enough for them to get clear. Long enough for this to”

He stops. Because you’re still there. Still too close. His expression shifts, something fragile breaking through the fear and the strain.

“…you weren’t supposed to stay for this part.”

There’s no anger in it. Just something softer. Something that hurts more.

The light around him dims slightly, enough that you can see him clearer now the exhaustion in his face, the way he’s already fighting something deeper than the sky splitting apart around him.

“I’m not scared of dying,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now, more honest than anything he’s said before. A pause. His eyes stay on yours.

“I’m scared of forgetting you when it takes me.”

That lands heavier than anything else. The space between you feels thinner now, like even standing apart doesn’t mean much when everything else is falling away.

He exhales slowly, something almost like a smile ghosting across his face.

“When they write my ending…” he murmurs, voice softer, like it belongs only to you, “I want them to know you were the reason I fought it this long.”

The light surges again brighter, unstable, pushing at the edges of him.

He falters. Just for a second. But it’s enough. He looks back at you, something desperate slipping through the calm he’s trying to hold onto.

“…stay with me,” he says, barely above a breath. Not a command. Not a plea.Something in between. “Just until the light goes out.”