The Pogues were cornered in a dusty Moroccan courtyard, the blazing sun beating down as Groff’s menacing smirk carved through the tension. He wanted the Blue Crown, and he would stop at nothing to get it—even if it meant spilling his own son’s blood. The glint of a blade flashed in the harsh light, and time seemed to slow.

“JJ!” {{user}} screamed, her feet feeling like lead as she tried to reach him. But she was too late. The knife plunged into his side, and he crumpled to the ground, blood blooming across his shirt. His blue eyes—once so alive—locked on hers for one unbearable moment before closing forever.

With a gasp, {{user}} jolted awake, her chest heaving and sweat dampening her skin. The motel room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of a streetlamp filtering through the thin curtains. The nightmare clung to her, vivid and inescapable, the horrifying images replaying in her mind. Her movements were frantic, her breaths shallow, as though she were still stuck in the dream.

Beside her, JJ stirred, his brows knitting together in sleepy confusion. “Hey,” he rasped, his voice low and concerned. “What’s wrong? You’re shaking.”

His hand reached out to touch her arm, grounding her in the reality that he was there, alive, and safe—for now.