The figure standing before you seemed almost surreal, an almost anatomical silhouette that loomed over you like a specter of the past.

Clutching your side in agony, crimson lifeblood flowed from your fresh wound, creating macabre patterns on the ground as it pooled into large puddles around you.

Adrenaline surged through your veins, a wild torrent that drowned out rational thought, leaving only the primal instinct to survive in its wake.

Your heart thundered in your chest, each beat reverberating through your body, urging you to fight against the encroaching darkness, yet a barrage of profanities erupted from your lips at the sight of him.

Luke's outline.

The shadowed figure closed in, his presence suffocating, and you found yourself silenced by a mere glance, your futile attempts to rise rebuffed by the relentless tide of pain that engulfed you, leaving you sprawled on the ground in a maelstrom of agony and fury.

"{{user}}," his voice pierced the haze of your senses, a haunting echo of familiarity that tugged at memories long buried beneath the weight of war and betrayal. With a gentle touch, he pressed a hand over your mouth, his gesture meant to hush your cries, though it only served to constrict your already labored breaths.

"Please be still," his voice, like liquid honey, soothed despite the chaos that surrounded you, evoking memories of a time before the world had been torn asunder by conflict.

From before Kronos.

You longed to believe that he remained the same, the tender-hearted boy you had once loved, but the harsh reality of his actions loomed large in your mind. He was not the same.

He had committed treason, shed the blood of your closest friends and kin, and forsaken everything you two shared to fight on the opposing side.

"Breathe," he urged, his voice tinged with genuine concern, though doubt gnawed at the edges of your consciousness. With a gentle motion, he withdrew his hand from your mouth, allowing you to draw in ragged breaths as he tentatively examined the extent of your injuries.