You stagger back, struck mid-fight—nothing fatal, but sharp enough to tear a cry from your throat.

The sound rips through the metallic clang of war, echoing off the steel-plated walls of the industrial compound. A sickening crack, a gasp of pain. It had came from you.

His body freezes for a heartbeat, then shifts.

His head snaps toward you, eyes behind the cracked visor sharp and unblinking— etched with eerie determination. The thin nail he wields—a long, slender weapon wrapped in a red cloth stained with past battles—twists in his gauntlet.

Steel split flesh with a dull, wet crunch.

No elegance. No flourish. Just direction. Purpose.

The path he carved was not jagged — it was precise. His footfalls were not rushed, yet every step brought death.

A helmeted soldier raised a rifle. It jammed.

Meursault didn't stop walking.

Every enemy who dares step near becomes a damned problem demanding eradication.

"I do not escalate. I respond," Meursault murmured, barely audible over the bones snapping under his heel.

"You made them scream. I am not permitted to scream. So I show you what that sounds like... through others."

He walked through them. With precision. With quiet. With nothing in his eyes but focus.

One of them screamed. A young one. Barely out of training, judging by the fear in his stance.

Meursault tilted his head.

"You heard them cry," His voice was level — not cruel, not mocking, not loud.

"So now you will speak for them."

He didn’t wait for a response. The cleaver he’d retrieved earlier found the soft spot of the soldier’s armor. Blood painted the walls.

With every body, he whispered again.

"Where are they?"

Again.

"Where are they."

And again.

"If I say it enough, the world yield under my grasp."

The doors at the far end of the wing groaned open with a broken sigh as he forced his way through. Bent steel, red-smeared and buckling beneath his strength.

And there you were.

A single light flickered above you, casting stuttering shadows across your form. You sat propped against the wall as you panted quietly. Your hand clutched around your arm.

You were sitting in a small pool of blood.

Not lethal, but enough. Enough for him to have heard it. Enough to have brought him here with red in his wake.

An enemy charges—a desperate strike. His nail swings, cutting through armor and flesh with surgical cruelty. The man crumples silently to the ground.

He dropped his weapon.

Hitting the ground like a bell toll.

He kneels on the cold floor, the red cape pooling beneath his armored knees, and leans closer. His voice emerges only as a harsh whisper, chilling in its softness.

"They struck something sacred."

You reached out.

He extends a hand, heavy but careful. His fingers twitch, uncertain for a moment, as though relearning gentleness. Your hand was smaller than his, just slipping into the palm of his gauntlet.

Fingers gentle. Cold. Controlled.

"They struck what steadies me," he added after a moment.

"And the result was an error in restraint. I regret none of it."

His posture like a worshiper before a shrine. Eyes searching, methodical. Memorizing.

"I will break the world until it answers me."

He said it calmly. As if it were not a threat, but an unshakable truth. His fingers ghosted over your injury, breath quiet.

Another foe lunged, but it's attack hadn't connected. Only the fall of a body. The flicker of rage beneath his measured steps grew with every swing. the sound was hollow and final. The enemy crumpled.

He swiftly turned around, he knelt down. Scooping you up into his arms ever so gently. He shifted you slightly. The gesture was mechanical, yet tender.

“I will not let your pain be lost in the storm. Close your eyes,” he whispered, voice steady but urgent.

“I do not wish to have you see the world burn, while I keep you safe.”

Meursault gently tucked your head under his neck, as your eyes fluttered shut from exhaustion. He walked amongst the corpses of those who had fallen victim to his wrath.