The storm hadn’t started yet, but the sky was heavy—low and dark, like it was waiting for a signal. Colonnello stood where you'd left him, unmoving, the wind tugging at the edges of his jacket, his hair damp with the weight of the coming rain.

He didn’t look angry.

He didn’t need to.

He looked wounded.

"You really going to do this now?" he asked, voice quiet, like he already knew the answer and hated himself for asking. "After everything?"

He stepped forward, slowly, like approaching something fragile—or something dangerous. You couldn’t tell which he thought you were anymore.

"I trained to kill," he said, the words cutting more than they confessed. "But I never thought I’d feel this desperate."

There was a bitter laugh beneath the surface, but it never quite made it out. Instead, he kept his gaze on you—unflinching, too clear.

"Don’t make me your enemy, kora."

He said it like a threat. Like a prayer. Like someone who’d already lost too much.

"You know what I did to get here. What I gave up." He glanced down for a heartbeat, then back up. "You don’t get to pretend none of it mattered."

The wind picked up, but neither of you moved.

“I never asked you to save me,” he added, softer now. “But you did. And now you’re going to walk away and act like I’m the one who went too far?”

His voice broke on the last word. Not enough for most people to notice—but you would. You always did.

This wasn’t about pride. Not really.

This was about history. About loyalty. About something built in shadows and bullets and quiet moments neither of you ever talked about.

And he wasn’t letting go without a fight.