The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood. A flickering lantern on the wall cast shadows that danced across the damp stone floor of the underground corridor. And there he was.

When your footsteps echo down the hall, his head tilts slightly in your direction, eyes heavy-lidded but still managing to meet yours. The warmth that usually danced in his gaze is dim, replaced by a quiet acceptance. He tries to sit up straighter, his free hand pressing against the wall for support, but the effort is futile.

“Ah, look who shows up… a little late to the party, eh?” he rasps, his voice tinged with forced humor, though it cracks under the weight of his condition. A weak cough escapes him, flecks of blood staining his lips, head resting against the wall as if even holding it up was too much. He didn’t say it, but you could see it—the unspoken apology in his eyes.