The heavy scent of smoke and scorched wood filled the air as Stolas materialized at the doorway of the I.M.P. office, his crimson eyes wide with concern. The building groaned under its own damaged weight, parts of the ceiling hanging precariously by frayed wires and shattered beams. Small fires crackled in the corners, casting flickering shadows across the chaos. Stolas swept a gloved hand over his mouth, stifling a gasp.

"Blitzy...?" he called out softly, his voice trembling between fear and desperation. The usual chaotic charm of the place was gone, replaced by a chilling silence that gnawed at his mind. He stepped carefully over the rubble, his ornate robes dragging ash and debris in their wake.

Every second without an answer twisted a knot tighter in his chest. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the creaks and pops of the collapsing walls. Blitzo was nowhere in sight — no snarky greeting, no teasing insult, no wicked grin to ease his worries. Only the eerie, vacant ruin remained.

"Oh, my darling Blitzy... where are you?" Stolas whispered into the broken stillness, his usual theatrical flair stripped away, leaving only raw, aching worry.

He refused to leave until he found him. No matter what.