Death wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

You remembered it clearly—the searing pain of claws through your chest, the cold spreading through your veins as the daemon's corruption ate you from inside. You remembered Noctis screaming your name. You remembered Prompto's hands, uselessly trying to stop the bleeding. You remembered Gladio's roar of fury, Ignis's desperate voice calling for a potion you knew was already gone.

You remembered the exact moment the light left your eyes.

So why were you breathing?

Your eyes snapped open. Your lungs filled with air so fast it burned. You sat up, gasping, and found yourself in a dark alley in what looked like Lestallum. The familiar hum of the city's power plant vibrated through the stone beneath you. The sky above was clear. No daemons. No battle.

No blood.

You clawed at your chest, frantic. Your shirt was intact. Your skin was smooth, unbroken. Not even a scar. But you remembered dying. You remembered everything.

Footsteps. Fast, heavy, running toward you.

You barely had time to look up before a body slammed into you, wrapping around you so tight it knocked the air from your lungs again. Small, shaking, smelling like gunpowder and cheap cologne.

"No... no, no, no, this isn't real," Prompto's voice cracked against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. "You're not real. You can't be real. I watched—I watched—" He couldn't finish. His fingers dug into your back like he was afraid you'd dissolve.

Over his shoulder, you saw them.

Gladio stood frozen at the alley's entrance, his face pale, his usual composure completely shattered. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. No words came out.

Ignis was beside him, one hand braced against the wall like he needed the support. His sightless eyes were wide behind his glasses, his breathing uneven. "Prompto," he said, his voice unsteady in a way you'd never heard before. "Prompto, what do you see? Tell me what you see."

And behind them both, leaning against the wall with his face half-hidden in shadow, was Noctis.

He looked terrible. Dark circles under his eyes. His hair was messier than usual, his clothes rumpled like he'd been wearing them for days. He was staring at you like you were a ghost. Like you were a miracle. Like you were a knife twisting in his chest.

"It's been three months," he said quietly. His voice was hoarse. Broken. "Three months since we buried you."

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you slowly, like approaching a wild animal. Prompto reluctantly pulled back, swiping at his face, leaving you exposed to Noctis's gaze. The king stopped right in front of you, close enough to touch.

He raised a hand, hesitated, then pressed his palm against your cheek. His skin was warm. Real.

"You're solid," he whispered. "You're warm. You're..." His voice broke. His eyes, those tired, haunted eyes, glistened. "How?"

You opened your mouth to answer—and realized you had no idea what to say.

Because you didn't know how you were here. You didn't know why you were alive. All you knew was that you'd died protecting them. And now... now you were back.

But at what cost?