Every day bled into the next—another sunrise, another patrol, another hollow promise whispered into your hair before dawn. "I’ll be home early tonight," he’d murmured, calloused fingers brushing your cheek like an apology already forming. But the border skirmishes had worsened, and Phainon, ever the martyr, stayed an extra hour. Then two. Just to be sure.

The tyres of his car screamed against gravel as he swerved into the driveway—too late. Far too late.

The world tilted.

Dozens of guards swarmed your home like vultures, their weapons glinting under the porch light. His breath evaporated. No. Not your laughter still echoing in the halls that morning. Not your unfinished coffee left on the counter, still warm when he’d stolen a sip. Not you—

He didn’t remember unbuckling his seatbelt. Didn’t feel his knees crack against the pavement as he sprinted, lungs burning. Only the static roar in his skull: "This isn’t happening."

"WHERE IS SHE?" The raw desperation in his voice didn’t sound human. Guards flinched as he shoved past, their pitying stares like knives. His pulse pounded in his throat, each beat an accusation: You swore. You swore. You—

A broken whimper escaped him as he tore through rooms, overturning chairs, scattering papers—anything you’d touched was now a relic. "{{user}}!" Your name was a prayer, a curse, a plea. The walls echoed back silence.

His hands trembled. The scent of your perfume lingered in the air, sweet and cruel.

Somewhere, a clock ticked. The universe kept moving.

Phainon did not.