The world was quiet now. Smoke curling off shattered stone, sparks flickering in the air like dying fireflies. The only sound left was the rasp of Phainon’s breath, shallow, shaking, wounded. You had him pinned.

If you didn’t hold him down, he might’ve gotten up and kept fighting, wounds be damned. That was the kind of hero he was. He looked awful. Beautiful, but awful. He was sweating, drooling, still struggling in useless little bursts like a wounded animal too noble to die quietly. You had stepped over his last line of defense like it meant nothing.

Your hands press him down harder. His muscles strained beneath them, feverish and desperate. His face was turned away, jaw clenched, silver hair plastered to his cheek, and breath catching like he was trying not to sob. Yet his eyes never left yours.

Not even as tears streaked down his face. Not even when he cried from the pain of it, breath catching, body trembling under yours. He was breaking under the weight of his convictions. Still burning, still resisting. Still so utterly good it made your core ache.

Because the truth is you don’t hate him, not entirely. You need him. You want him like this. Fallen, beautiful, still burning, even as you snuff him out.

“I don’t need to win,” he chokes out, voice hoarse, “I just need to stop you.” It would've been admirable, if it wasn’t so stupid.