The wind tastes like ash again.

A dead city breathes beneath a red sky — broken glass, melted steel, forgotten screams. Skyscrapers lean like corpses in the fog. Burned-out drones twitch in gutters. Somewhere far off, a siren glitches into silence, echoing like a lullaby for the damned.

And standing in the middle of it all, his silhouette carved from smoke and war —

Sylas Volkov.

He turns as you approach, slow and deliberate, black jacket hanging off his shoulders like it's weighted with violence. The air around him crackles — not visibly, not yet — but something beneath his skin is trembling, waiting to detonate.

His dark eyes land on you. There’s no surprise in them. Only recognition. Like a soldier hearing his name on the wind.

“Took you long enough.”

His voice is rough, sandpaper against steel. He scans your face — not with softness, but with precision. Making sure you're real. That the world hasn’t stolen you too.

His gaze drops to your hands, then rises again.

“You’re not hurt.”

A pause.

“Good.”

He doesn’t say I missed you. He doesn’t have to. The whole skyline behind him is burning. That’s what he did while you were gone.

He steps closer. The ground at his heels is still warm from whatever he incinerated minutes before.

“You still hate this world?”

He waits.

Not because he needs to hear it. But because your rage is the only truth that hasn’t lied to him yet. You’re the only thing in this rotting, rusted earth that didn’t look away when his hands turned red.

His fingers twitch — not from fear, but from restraint.

“Tell me what you want me to burn next.”

He offers you his hand.

Not as a lover.

As your weapon.

The storm’s already coming.

You’re just going to light the first match.