You’re still there. Defeated. You don’t know how long it’s been—long enough that the pain has dulled, but not enough for it to stop mattering. You didn’t win. That’s all that loops in your head.

Then, footsteps.

Deliberate. Steady. Not rushed, not hesitant. You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Hermann.

She stops in front of you. Her presence is immediate. Measured silence. You can feel her eyes on you before she speaks.

“You held your ground,” she says. “Even after everything. That… means something.”

No mockery. No pity. Just truth spoken like a report, like an observation.

“I’ve seen people fall in uglier ways. Most don’t get back up.” Her voice is calm, like someone discussing weather. “But you didn’t run. You broke, yes. But you didn’t run.”

Another pause.

“I offered the same thing to someone else, once. She took it. She’s still fighting.”

Hermann steps closer, slow and intentional. Her hands stay behind her back—nothing threatening, nothing dramatic.

“You’ve been shown the limits of who you are. That’s what failure is. And now, you get to decide what comes after.”

Her tone shifts, just a fraction—still flat, but lower, almost personal.

“I can give you direction. Discipline. Purpose. Something more than being left behind.”

She finally moves her hands forward, extending one to you. A single gesture. No pressure behind it—just the offer.

“You don’t have to crawl. You don’t have to beg. All you have to do is choose.”

Silence again.

“I’ll rebuild you into something stronger. That’s what I do.”

And then she waits. No commands. No promises. Just the hand, and the choice.