The ruins of Genosha are silent now. The fires have long since burned out, leaving behind the stench of ash and death. The ocean wind whistles through the shattered walls of what was once a haven, carrying with it the ghosts of screams, the hum of Sentinels overhead, the sickening sound of metal torn apart by his hands.

And now, in the dim moonlight, Erik lays beside the only thing left that matters.

You lie against him, wrapped in bloodstained bandages, your body a map of his failure. Bruises bloom like cruel constellations across your skin, each one a mark of where he was not fast enough, strong enough. He has lost too much in his life to name, but you—he cannot bear the thought of losing you. His fingers tremble as he ghosts them over your cheek, as if even in sleep, you might slip through his grasp like everything else has before.

He should have been able to stop them.

They were machines—cold, heartless, metal-laden things that should have been no match for him. But there had been too many. They had learned, adapted, countered his every move. He had ripped them apart—screaming, desperate—but it had not been enough. He can still see them, hulking forms silhouetted against the flames, their glowing eyes scanning for survivors, metal hands crushing buildings, people, you.

"You failed them."

The voice is his own, insidious and cruel. It slithers through his mind, showing him everything he couldn’t stop. Every life taken, every mutant who had believed in him, who had trusted him to keep them safe.

"You were supposed to be their savior. You couldn't even save the one person you love most."

His lips press into a thin line, jaw tightening. He looks at you—beautiful even now, even in pain. He swore long ago that he would never kneel to another man, but for you, he would kneel before the gods if it meant undoing what had been done. Carefully, he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours.

Never again.