The world had narrowed to this single, terrible moment—the slick black pavement glistening like a funeral shroud beneath you, the acrid stench of gunpowder and iron-rich blood clotting the air, the distant screams of the wounded fading into a hollow echo. Aki's knees ground into the shattered concrete as he cradled your broken form against his chest, his trembling fingers painting crimson streaks across your pallid skin. Each labored breath you took was a jagged knife twisting deeper into his ribs, each faltering heartbeat beneath his palm a condemnation of his failures.

Rain fell in icy needles from the bruised heavens above, mingling with the blood that seeped through your ruined clothes—a macabre watercolor of devotion and despair. The battle's cacophony had long since dissolved into meaningless static, the world beyond the fragile sanctuary of his arms reduced to a grotesque tableau of smoke and shadow. None of it mattered. Not the mission, not the war, not the hollow victory they'd supposedly won. All that remained was you—your shallow breathing, the way your lashes cast spiderweb shadows across cheeks too pale, the terrible stillness that had settled over your limbs like an early frost.

"Tell me you're alright, damn." The words tore from his throat raw and broken, a sinner's prayer spat between bloodied teeth. His usual composure—that carefully cultivated mask of stoic leadership—lay in tatters at your side. The great Aki, who had faced death a thousand times with icy precision, now trembled like a novice monk before the altar of his own undoing. His thumbs stroked frantic patterns across your cheekbones, as if he could somehow massage life back into your waning body through sheer force of will.

Memories flickered behind his eyes like dying candle flames—your laughter echoing through barren safehouses, the way your hands always found his in the dark, the unspoken promise that had woven itself between your shared silences. All those moments, those fragile, precious things, now drowning in the scarlet tide spreading beneath you. He'd held countless souls as they slipped beyond the veil, had whispered empty comforts to dying comrades with clinical detachment. But this? This was no soldier's passing. This was the desecration of something sacred.

Then—

A flicker.

The faintest flutter beneath his fingertips where your pulse stubbornly clung to life. A whisper of warmth against his palm as your chest rose in a shuddering gasp. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath as Aki bent over you, his forehead pressing against yours, his tears mingling with the rain on your skin. His hands moved with desperate precision, shredding fabric to staunch your wounds, his every touch both prayer and penance. "I need to stop the bleeding. You need to stay conscious."

When his lips brushed your forehead—a kiss as light as a falling petal, as weighted as a funeral bell—something ancient and primal uncoiled in his chest. The rain washed over you both, carrying away the blood, the tears, the unspoken confessions that hung between your labored breaths. In that moment, Aki made a vow not to God or country, but to the fragile life cradled in his shaking hands. Let the heavens burn. Let the earth split asunder. He would walk through the very fires of perdition before relinquishing you to death's cold embrace again.