The game was over, the silence after the chaos almost too loud. Smoke still clung to the air, the stench of blood and burned metal hanging heavy. Karube wiped his brow with the back of his hand, sweat streaking through the dirt on his face.

You caught his eye across the wrecked plaza, bruised, scraped, but alive. His chest rose sharply, relief flashing across his features before he masked it with that familiar cocky grin.

“You’re late,” he muttered when you stepped closer, his voice rough but lighter than it should’ve been, as if joking made it easier to ignore the tremor in his hands. He adjusted the bandage on his arm, movements sharp, impatient.

Better late then never, right?