The room smells of iron and smoke. He’s slumped against the wall, shoulders trembling, crimson streaked across his clothes. His hands shake, but not from fear—something heavier, darker, clings to him.

I can’t move, can’t look away. Every cut, every stain, every shadow on his face tells a story I don’t want to know but can’t ignore.

His breathing is shallow, uneven, and for a moment, he looks like the person I remember—not the monster the world whispers about.

I kneel nearby, heart pounding in a rhythm that matches his exhaustion. The weight of what he’s done, what he’s carried, presses down, and yet… even now, I can’t stop myself from being here. Watching. Waiting.

Even covered in blood and haunted by his choices, he feels unbearably human.