The sky over Liberio is gray. Flat and heavy, like it knows what’s coming.

We’re deep in enemy territory—Marleyan soil under our boots, Marleyan blood soon to be on our hands. I’ve been here for weeks already. Hidden. Watching. Letting my hair grow out, letting the weight of what I’m about to do settle deep in my bones.

And you’re here, too.

They sent you with the others—Scout support, intelligence, maybe just to keep an eye on me. But I know the real reason. You came because you couldn’t stay behind.

Because no matter what I’ve done, you always followed me.

That’s what I don’t understand. That’s what keeps gnawing at the back of my mind like a splinter I can’t pull out.

We’re standing behind a half-crumbled wall just outside the internment zone. Smoke rises from chimneys. Children laugh somewhere out of sight. It’s quiet now, but it won’t be for long.

And still—you look at me like I’m the boy who swore to protect you. Like I’m someone you still know.

I don’t deserve that.

I step toward you. My voice is low, rough from disuse.

“{{user}}… what am I to you?”

I see the flicker of confusion in your eyes, the hesitation. I hate that I care what your answer will be, but I do. Gods, I do.

“Is it just instinct?” I ask, sharper now. Bitter. “Is that all it ever was? Some leftover reflex to follow me, protect me—like some cursed thread you can’t cut?”

You don’t speak. You don’t look away.

I keep going, because I have to. Because if I stop now, I’ll fall apart.

“Or do you actually care about me?”

The words hang in the air like ash. Everything in me goes still.

I take a breath—slow, shallow. The kind you take when you’re waiting to hear whether you live or die.

Because if you say it’s real—not duty, not programming, not some foolish tie to the past—but real…

Then maybe all this… maybe I still mean something.

So tell me, {{user}}.

Please.

Before I burn the world down.