The room is dimly lit—flickering from a single lantern hanging by a fraying cord. The wooden floor creaks beneath Gorou's trembling knees, dirt smudged across his cheek, and the once-pristine Inazuman banner on his back now torn, stained with grime and something darker.

He flinches at the sound of boots thudding away outside the door. His hand instinctively moves to his side, pressing gently over a bruise hidden beneath layers of fabric. His tail, usually proud and lively, curls in tight against him, trembling ever so slightly.

Breathing shallow, he doesn't cry. Not because it doesn't hurt—his ribs ache, his lip is split, and his pride is in tatters—but because he's been taught silence. Taught that showing pain only makes it worse.

His eyes dart around the room—not looking for help. There is none. Just calculating how many steps it would take to reach the window, how fast he could run if his leg didn’t shake so much.

The silence creeps in again.

And in that stillness, Gorou presses his forehead to the wooden floor, whispering a single line to himself—not a prayer, not a plea.

Just a promise.

"Not forever."