The warmth of the fire was dying, flickering weakly against the cold that crept into the room. The embers smoldered, casting long shadows across the walls, their glow barely reaching Arlecchino's crimson gaze.

She knelt beside you, gloved hands pressing against your wounds, but she already knew — it was useless. No matter how skilled, how ruthless, how unyielding she had been, she could not stop the inevitable.

"You shouldn't have done that," she murmured, voice low, almost unreadable. But the tightness in her grip betrayed the storm raging beneath her cold exterior. "I never asked you to protect me."

Blood stained her hands — yours. The one person she never wanted to lose.

For the first time, Arlecchino wished she could bargain with fate. But there was no one left to bargain with.