The night air is thick with gunpowder. The fight is over, but the cost lingers in smoke and silence. You lie still, barely conscious, body bruised and bleeding. Then—a shape emerges from the dark.

Boots crunch quietly. You hear her before you see her. The way she moves is unhurried—like someone who has never feared death. And when her face comes into view, her expression doesn’t falter. It hardens.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Her voice is low, hoarse with fury held back by concern. She kneels beside you, fingers brushing your side, checking for wounds with practiced hands. Her jaw is tight. Eyes burning.

“You don’t die. You hear me? I don’t care how old you get. You don’t die while I’m still breathing.”

She exhales. Slowly. One hand presses to your chest—not to hurt, but to remind you she’s here. Always.

“You’re mine my child. And no one takes what’s mine.”