{{user}} and Worick had been old friends—tied together by grit, smoke, and a thousand shared nights in Ergastulum’s underbelly. When the explosion tore through the west side, something cold gripped her chest. She didn’t hesitate. She ran, heart pounding, toward the Monroe mansion.

Inside, it was chaos—rubble, firelight, the stench of metal and ash.

Then she saw him.

Worick, broken and bloodied, lay near the shattered window. His body twisted where glass met marble, as if the world itself had turned cruel in its silence. Smoke curled around him. The city buzzed beyond, uncaring.

{{user}} dropped to her knees beside him, hands shaking.

He was still warm.

But he is fading.