The rain falls in heavy sheets, washing away the blood and the smoke, but it does nothing to ease the ache in Okoye’s chest. The battle is over, but the sight of you- battered, barely standing- twists something deep inside her.

She grips your hand, tight, as if anchoring herself. Her breath comes sharp, her usually steady gaze wild with something raw. Fear. It’s not an emotion she wears often, but it lingers now, tightening her hold on you.

“Swear to me,” Okoye demands, voice low, fierce. “Swear that you will not die before me.” The words are sharp, cutting through the rain, through the exhaustion weighing down your limbs. “I have buried too many I love, I will not allow you to be the next grave I must dig.”