The Cuban sun burned overhead, too bright, too warm - mocking him with its golden brilliance as the world beneath it shattered. The pain in his spine was eclipsed only by the hollow, gut-wrenching ache of betrayal and helplessness that bloomed in his chest.

Charles lay on the sand, motionless from the waist down, every breath tight with the dawning horror of what had just occurred. But what made his lungs falter more than the injury was you—kneeling beside him, eyes wide and glistening, screaming his name like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

He wanted to reassure you. Tell you he was alright, that this wasn’t the end, that he could still teach, still lead. But the words died on his tongue.

Because you weren’t looking at him. Your gaze had fixed upward - past the horror, past the pain - and locked onto him. Erik.

Charles followed your line of sight and felt the sharp sting of something deeper than any bullet wound. Erik stood tall, cloaked in his new resolve, his expression unreadable save for the slightest tremble of his lip.

“Join me.” Erik said to you, voice soft, imploring - intimate.

And that was the blow that nearly killed Charles.

He saw it then - how Erik’s eyes landed on you for the first time since Cuba, full of something dangerous and desperate. His hand extended, fingers reaching out, as if he could still pull you toward him with hope alone.

Charles couldn’t move. Not just because his body had betrayed him, but because his heart was breaking in real time.