The battlefield burned behind you — a chorus of screams swallowed by fire and gunfire. You stumbled from the ruins, blood-slick and shaking, eyes wide with defiance even as your body faltered.

He was waiting.

The Slayer loomed in the smoke, a beast forged of steel and wrath. His shotgun hung at his side, barrel still glowing from the fight. For a moment, he didn’t move — just watched. His instincts screamed kill, but something deeper… something older held his hand still.

When you dropped to your knees, his chest rose sharply — a tremor that betrayed the man beneath the armor.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, catching you before you hit the ground. The smell of iron and fire filled the air. You expected pain. Instead, you felt the steady beat of a heart under his armor — heavy, human, real.

The Slayer said nothing. He never did. But his grip tightened, and in that silence, you could almost hear what he couldn’t say:

You don’t have to die here.