The last thing he remembered was the sunset. Orange light stretching across Wakanda's horizon. The feeling of defeat. And the cold certainty that he was dying. He remembered T'Challa offering help. Offering healing. Offering another chance. And he remembered refusing. After that—Nothing.

When consciousness finally returned, it arrived slowly. A dull ache spread through his chest first. Then the sensation of fabric beneath his hands. The faint scent of herbs and clean air. Somewhere nearby, water trickled softly. Erik's eyes opened. White stone ceilings greeted him. Not an ancestral plane. Not death. A room.

His hand instinctively shot toward the wound in his chest only to freeze when he found bandages instead of blood. The injury was still there, But mostly healed.

Someone had saved him. Against his wishes. The realization irritated him far more than it should have. He pushed himself upright too quickly. For the first time, he noticed he wasn't alone. Across the room stood you. Simple healer's clothing. Medical supplies organized neatly nearby. The kind of person who clearly spent more time helping others than worrying about themselves. And judging by the lack of surprise on their face—They'd been expecting him to wake up.

Erik studied them suspiciously.

"You got a habit of staring at patients when they sleep?" he asked dryly.