The air between you was tense, the kind that settles in when two people are too scared to say what they truly feel. He was quiet that day—quieter than usual—and you knew something was off the moment he asked to see you alone. He stood by the edge of the rooftop, eyes cast toward the ruined skyline of the Last City, hands shoved deep in his pockets as if hiding something.

When he finally turned, he didn’t say much. Just pulled his sleeve back in one sharp motion.

There it was. The black veins. Worse than the last time. Spreading. Fast.

You said his name, barely a whisper. But he didn’t look at you. Just stared at his own skin like it wasn’t his anymore.

“Didn’t think it’d spread this much already,” he muttered, half to himself. Then he looked at you, and that look made your chest ache. “Guess I’m running out of time, huh?”