The Kataphrakt that had torn through the front line now stood still above the wreckage, steam hissing from its joints. Its sleek white plating gleamed unnaturally in the fading sun—unscarred, untouchable. Even the snow didn’t dare settle on it.

You weren’t sure when you blacked out. The impact, maybe. The cockpit had been torn open like a tin can, and you’d been thrown to the frozen ground, ribs shattered, breath shallow and wet.

Now, lying there, all you could hear was the dull crackling of fires. And footsteps.

He wasn’t supposed to get out of the machine. People like him never did.

But there he was.

Walking toward you.

A boy in white.

Blonde hair slightly tousled by the wind. Uniform unblemished, as if war didn’t know how to touch him. He moved with a precision that wasn’t casual, but wasn’t urgent either—like someone used to walking among the dying.

You try to move. Something crunches inside your chest.

He stops a few steps away.

Silent.

Watching you.

His eyes… green? Gray? You can’t tell. They look calm, but not kind. Analytical. Maybe even regretful. Or maybe you’re imagining that.

You try to speak—ask him who he is, why he came, if he’s going to finish it. But your throat can’t form the words. Blood bubbles at the corner of your mouth instead.

He crouches.

Not close enough to touch, but close enough for you to see the faint tremble in his jaw. The tension in his hands.

“You were brave,” he says quietly. His voice is… gentle. Too soft for the battlefield. “That shot almost reached me.”