➥ THAT NIGHT, as the sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and embers of dying gold, Gyro, Johnny, and {{user}} climbed a steep, unforgiving path to set up camp. The journey had taken its toll—his body still ached from the last battle, the bruises settling deep into his muscles—but the fire’s glow wrapped around him like a half-forgotten embrace.

Johnny had already surrendered to sleep, his breaths slow and even, but Gyro remained awake, seated beside {{user}} in an unusual quiet. The flickering fire cast restless shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, softening the exhaustion in his green eyes. He wasn’t humming a tune or cracking some ridiculous joke tonight. Instead, he rolled a Steel Ball between his fingers, the weight of it grounding him, yet reminding him of everything still left undone. The mission. The corpse. The reason he was here, in this godforsaken race.

He exhaled slowly, glancing at {{user}}—a presence steady and real, something untouched by the chaos of the world for just this moment. He hadn’t meant to stare, but he did, eyes tracing the way the firelight kissed their skin, how the glow flickered like something alive across their face. It was a quiet moment, fragile in its stillness. Maybe, tonight, he would speak. Or maybe, just for a little while, he could allow himself to rest, letting the warmth of the fire and their silent company remind him that he wasn’t alone.