You shouldn’t have been here. Not at this hour, not on this desolate shore. But when the wind howled like a wounded thing — wrong, so wrong — you followed.

And there he was.

Venti, waist-deep in the blackened tide, his head cocked as if listening to a voice you couldn’t hear. Moonlight cut through him like he was already half-ghost, his fingers trailing the water’s surface like he was testing its willingness to keep him.

You shouted his name. The wind stole it.

Then he stepped deeper.

You don’t remember diving. Only the cold, the salt clawing down your throat as you fought the current, your fingers snagging fabric, hair, anything. He was dead weight in your grip, his skin already leaching warmth into the hungry dark.

By the time you dragged him onto the sand, your lungs burned and his lips were blue.

Then — a gasp.

Venti jerked sideways, retching seawater onto the shore, his whole body heaving. Tears streaked his cheeks — from the salt or something worse — as he choked on air that didn’t seem to want him. His fingers dug into the sand like he was afraid the earth would dissolve beneath him.

"…told me… I could…" His voice was a shattered thing, syllables slipping between ragged breaths. "…just… rest…"

His eyelids fluttered. For a heartbeat, his gaze fixed on you, teal eyes glazed with something between gratitude and grief while you hurry to come closer. Then his arms gave out.