The world was a smear of light and smoke. Something in my chest rattled when you breathed — like broken glass rolling in a tin.

you didn’t realize you were being carried until the cold hit your face.

Not dragged, not thrown — carried. Arms locked firm under my legs and back, your head lolling against something solid and warm through layers of fabric. The smell was gunpowder and ash. The rhythm of each step — steady, slow, precise — told you before you even opened your eyes.

Zodyl Typhon.

The broken signs flickered blue and white across his face when you blinked up, each flash cutting through the storm’s haze. He didn’t look down — didn’t speak. His eyes were fixed forward, following some invisible route through the ruins. Like the chaos behind him no longer existed.

you tried to move, to say something — maybe you should’ve left me, or it’s fine — but all that came out was a weak sound. His grip shifted slightly, tightening for a moment, careful not to jar your side.

“Don’t talk,”

he said, quiet but sharp enough to cut through the noise.

The wind caught his coat, flaring it out behind him, the torn hem still smoking from where the blast hit earlier. He didn’t flinch when sparks drifted past his cheek. The ground under you changed — from cracked concrete to softer trash sand. You were out of the kill zone now. Zodyl stopped, kneeling just enough to lower you beside a rusted pipe. The movement was careful, practiced — but not gentle.

He pulled his glove off with his teeth, pressed his bare hand to your ribs, and frowned when blood seeped through his fingers. For a moment, there was nothing but the storm’s hum and the heat of his hand.

“You’re lucky the Broker’s toys missed your artery,”

he said.

“Next time, don’t hesitate.”

His voice was steady. Cold. But underneath — there was something quieter. Something that didn’t fit with the rest of him. You forced your eyes open again.

“Why’d you come back?”

He paused mid-motion, eyes flicking up.

“…You’re still useful,”

he said finally, standing, slipping the glove back on

“And I don’t like losing what’s mine.”

The words should’ve sounded cruel. They didn’t.