The midday sun bore down on the dirt path, the weight of its heat doing little to slow the two figures in pursuit. Heavy's boots pounded against the earth, his breath even despite the exertion. Beside him, Medic moved with surprising agility, his coat billowing behind him as they pressed forward. Though their pace was relentless, there was an unspoken understanding between them—this was a hunt, but not one they took lightly.

They were far from the battlefield now, the sounds of earlier combat long behind them. The metallic tang of blood had faded from the air, replaced by the dry scent of sunbaked grass and dirt. Kurome had vanished beyond the hills, her shadow slipping into the trees like a ghost. She was fast, but more than that, she was practiced. This was not her first retreat, nor would it be her last. She was methodical, controlled—like a blade forged purely for killing. Heavy knew she was dangerous, but she was not his concern. Not yet.

His mind lingered on Bols, the man he had just fought.

Heavy had faced many enemies—some cruel, some desperate, some who fought only because they were ordered to. Many were weak, relying on numbers or deception. Some had surrendered, others had begged. A few had even cursed him as they died. But Bols was different. His attacks were powerful, disciplined, yet measured. Each strike had intent, yet none were reckless. There had been no bloodlust in his eyes, only determination. He fought not for pleasure, not for glory, but for something greater than himself.

"A good soldier," Heavy muttered under his breath.

"Hmm?" Medic glanced at him, pushing his glasses up his nose. His voice was as casual as ever, yet there was a sharpness in his gaze. Heavy was not often one for quiet reflections.

Heavy did not look at him. "Bols."

Medic scoffed, his voice laced with mild amusement. "He tried to kill us, ja?"

Heavy nodded. "But not like others. Not cruel. Not cowardly. He fights for those he loves."

Medic was silent for a moment. The wind carried dust across the path ahead of them, but neither slowed their pace. Then, he exhaled through his nose, thoughtful. "Und that is why you hesitated."

Heavy frowned but did not deny it. It was true—he had seen Bols as more than an enemy, more than an obstacle to crush under his fists. He had seen himself in him. A man bound by duty, not by hatred. A warrior who carried the weight of his choices with him. That was rare.

Most of their enemies fought for greed or survival. But Bols had fought with conviction. Even in battle, he had not sought cruelty or excess. He had simply done what he believed was right. And that made Heavy wonder—had they been on different sides, would they have spoken as comrades instead of adversaries?

Far ahead, beyond the golden plains and distant hills, their true target still moved. Kurome would not stop. She was different from Bols. She was a killer, honed for war, molded into a weapon that had long since lost its choice.

Heavy's fists clenched at his sides. He would stop her.

But even as he ran, a part of him wished that Bols would live to see another day. A warrior like him deserved an end worthy of his fight—not to be discarded, not to be forgotten. He was a man Heavy could respect. And in this world, that was a rare thing indeed.

A sharp static crackled through the communicator clipped to Heavy's belt, followed by the urgent voice of a Spy Squad agent. "Report. Bols is down. Confirmed poison. Assassin: Chelsea."

Heavy's steps faltered. The earth beneath him felt unsteady, as if reality itself had shifted. He blinked once, then twice, trying to process the words. Bols... dead? Poisoned? No duel, no battle—just stolen from the world like a rat choking in the shadows?

The grip on Sasha, his beloved minigun, tightened, his fingers curling so hard around the trigger guard that his knuckles turned white. His breathing grew heavier, deeper, like a bear stirred from its slumber, not yet roaring but on the verge of violence.

"Scheiße…" Medic murmured, reading the rage forming in Heavy's expression. His fingers twitched at his side, hovering near his Medi-Gun, as though instinctively preparing for the worst. "Zhis is... most unfortunate."

A deep, guttural breath rumbled in Heavy's chest, his nostrils flaring as his jaw clenched. He had fought Bols not long ago—felt the weight of his strikes, saw the conviction in his eyes. They had stood as warriors on opposite ends of the battlefield, bound by the unspoken respect that only men of war understood. Bols had fought for his family, his ideals, his Empire. To die by poison was not his fate—it was theft, a crime against battle itself.

"Not fight. Not warrior's death. Coward's way!" His voice, usually booming and full of life, was now dangerously low, simmering with something far more volatile than his usual battle cries.

Medic sighed, rubbing his temple with gloved fingers. "Poison is a tool of assassins. Zhey strike in ze dark, vithout honor. But Heavy… vhat do you plan to do? Tear her apart? Break her bones? Vill zhat bring Bols back?"

Heavy didn't answer immediately. He stared ahead, his dark eyes unreadable, but his massive frame trembled with restrained fury. It would be so easy—so natural—to crush the one responsible, to show her what it meant to take the life of a soldier without honor.

"Find her. Make her answer." The words were carved from steel.

Medic observed him carefully, adjusting his gloves as he measured his response. "Ja, but answer vith vhat? Vith screams? Vith blood? You are not some mindless beast, Heavy. Ve are soldiers—not butchers."

Heavy remained silent. The rational part of him, buried beneath years of war, knew Medic was right. But reason did not temper the fire burning in his chest.

"You know I can help, ja?" Medic continued, a knowing smirk creeping onto his face. "If ve get to Bols in time… perhaps I can do somezing."

For a fleeting second, the rage in Heavy's face flickered, replaced by something else—hope, or something close to it. But it was gone just as fast.

"We go," Heavy rumbled, his voice resolute. He took a step forward, his strides growing longer, faster, until he was no longer just walking. He was hunting.

Medic followed, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle. "Ah, vhat am I going to do vith you?" He adjusted his Medi-Gun and jogged after Heavy. "Come, my friend. Let us see if zhere is still a soul left to save."

The sun hung high in the sky, an unrelenting orb of fire casting its searing light upon the battlefield of the Empire's turmoil. The scent of blood, dust, and decay tainted the air, lingering over the scene of carnage like a deathly shroud. The war between assassins, soldiers, and mercenaries raged on, leaving no room for mercy, no space for hesitation.

Chelsea gasped, her breaths shallow and ragged as she struggled to crawl away. Each movement sent fresh agony searing through her body, her wounds leaking a crimson trail across the battlefield. Her vision blurred, the edges of her sight darkening. She knew she was dying. Kurome's puppets had done their work efficiently—her body was broken, and her time was nearly up.

A thunderous impact shook the ground, sending a tremor through the air like the crack of a great mountain splitting. A massive figure crashed into the fray, fists clenched, his stance radiating barely contained fury.

Heavy had arrived.

The sheer force of his presence was enough to shift the tide of battle. Without hesitation, without warning, he moved. His fist shot forward like a cannon, slamming into Natala's temple. The undead puppet never stood a chance. Bone and flesh crunched sickeningly as Natala was hurled backward, crashing into the earth with a hollow, lifeless thud.

Chelsea barely had time to register what was happening before a massive hand shot out and clamped around her throat. The world tilted violently as she was lifted from the ground, her weakened body dangling helplessly in Heavy's iron grip. His fingers pressed against her windpipe, cutting off her breath as he held her aloft with terrifying ease.

Her eyes met his—deep, stormy pools of unfiltered rage. He was no longer just a man. He was an executioner.

"Did you poison Bols?" Heavy's voice was a guttural growl, like distant thunder rolling through an ominous storm. There was no warmth in his words, only the weight of impending judgment.

Chelsea coughed, her throat constricting against his powerful grip. She had no strength left to struggle, no fight left in her broken body. Heavy's grip tightened, his voice rising in fury.

"Did you poison Bols?!" he demanded again, his voice like a crack of thunder, raw with rage.

Chelsea flinched but forced herself to meet his glare. There was no point in lying. No point in trying to escape the inevitable. Through bleary eyes, she met his fury with unwavering defiance.

"Yes," she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper, but laced with a quiet, bitter resolve. "I poisoned him. I made sure he wouldn't make it back to his family. He was a soldier of the Empire... and I did what I had to do."

Her breath was ragged, her words punctuated by pain, but she forced them out, meeting Heavy's glare without flinching. "He may have been a good man to you, but to me, he was the enemy. Just like you are now."

She let out a weak, humorless chuckle, blood dripping from the corner of her mouth. "If it wasn't me, someone else would have done it. That's the nature of war... isn't it?"

For a moment, the battlefield was silent. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, the weight of her admission settling between them like a death sentence. Something inside Heavy snapped.

A roar tore from his throat, primal and unrestrained. His free hand curled into a fist, muscles bulging as he prepared to strike. He would end her now. Crush her. Make her pay.

Bols had deserved an honorable death—a warrior's end, a final stand. Not to be felled by a coward's trick. Not to be stolen away by poison and deceit. The sheer injustice of it burned inside Heavy, a roaring inferno of fury and grief.

His arm tensed, ready to deliver the killing blow.

A gloved hand caught his forearm.

"Enough."

Heavy barely turned his head, his fury barely tempered by the familiar voice. But it was a voice he could not ignore.

Medic stood beside him, his face unreadable, his grip firm yet devoid of hostility. There was no plea in his tone, only a quiet authority. Yet, behind that calm facade, Heavy could sense the tension between them.

"Stand down, Heavy," Medic urged, his voice carrying an almost surgical precision, as though he were dissecting Heavy's anger, trying to cut it away before it consumed him completely.

Heavy's grip on Chelsea remained firm, his breath ragged. "She took him from us, Doktor. She took Bols from his family, from his comrades." His voice wavered between rage and something deeper—grief. "You say I am not monster? But what else is left if justice is denied?"

Medic's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. "Justice is not vengeance. You think killing her will bring Bols back? Nein. But I can." His grip on Heavy's forearm tightened slightly, his own voice carrying a sharp edge. "But only if you listen."

Heavy's breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. His entire frame trembled, his grip still firm around Chelsea's throat. The fire of rage still burned within him, but Medic's words cut through the haze.

The battlefield was filled with killers—assassins, warriors, murderers of all kinds. But they, the REDs, were something else. They fought for a cause greater than blind vengeance.

Medic knew this. And deep down, Heavy did too.

Medic's voice lowered, a note of calculated certainty in his words. "If his body is intact, I can bring Bols back."

Heavy froze. The words echoed in his mind, disrupting the tempest of his emotions. His grip on Chelsea loosened slightly, enough for her to suck in a weak, wheezing breath. He could still feel the warmth of her blood on his fingers, the fragile life he held in his hands. He could still crush her. Still make her suffer.

But if he did—what would he become?

His fingers uncurled, and Chelsea collapsed to the ground in a limp heap, coughing weakly, her body too shattered to move. She was bleeding out, slipping closer to death with each passing moment. But Heavy would not be the one to strike the final blow.

Medic stepped forward, his sharp eyes locked onto Chelsea's fading form. His voice, normally laced with clinical detachment, now carried an unmistakable edge of contempt. "Where is Bols?" he demanded, his tone cold and cutting, as if dissecting her very soul. "Vere did you leave him to die?"

Chelsea's bloodied lips curled into a faint, defiant smirk. "You're too late," she rasped, the weight of death settling over her. "He's already gone."

Medic scoffed, crouching beside her, his piercing gaze scrutinizing her like a subject under his scalpel. "Foolish girl," he sneered, shaking his head. "You think death is final? You think ve are bound by ze same limitations as you? I am not some ordinary doctor—life and death are mine to command. If Bols' body remains intact, I can bring him back, stronger zan before. Your pathetic attempt to erase him may yet be undone."

Chelsea's smirk faltered, her breath shuddering. "You're lying..." she whispered, though uncertainty flickered in her fading eyes.

Medic leaned in closer, his cold, clinical gaze dissecting her expression, peeling away the last layers of her defiance. "Lying?" he echoed, his voice laced with mocking amusement. "Nein. You are simply too blind to see ze vastness of vat is possible. Ze body is but a vessel, and I have spent my life perfecting ze art of restoring it."

Chelsea's breath hitched, her body wracked with pain. The certainty she once clung to was slipping through her fingers like sand. Her mission, her choices—had they truly changed anything? Or had she merely delayed the inevitable?

Her lips parted, but no words came out. There was nothing left to say. The fight had left her, her mind clouded by doubt and the encroaching grip of death.

Heavy watched, his fists clenched at his sides. He exhaled sharply, his anger simmering but no longer consuming him. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Chelsea to her fate.

Kurome had watched the entire exchange, her hands trembling at her sides, her face twisted in a mixture of rage and disbelief. These men—these outsiders—how dare they interfere? How dare they deny Bols the justice he deserved? How dare they spare the murderer of her comrade?

Her grip tightened around her sword. A storm of fury and bloodlust boiled inside her. This battle was far from 's eyes burned with vengeful hatred, her small frame trembling with barely restrained rage. In one swift motion, she lunged, her sword flashing in the sunlight as she aimed straight for Medic's throat.

Medic barely had time to react, jerking backward as Kurome's blade sliced the air where his neck had been a moment before. He had expected retaliation, but not with such intensity.

"You dare take Bols' body?" she snarled, her voice laced with venom. "You dare interfere? You dare let that murderer die so easily?!"

Medic did not answer immediately. He pivoted on his heel, narrowly avoiding another lethal swing as Kurome pressed her attack. The girl was relentless, her movements precise, her strikes guided by deadly purpose. She fought like a demon, her sword a whirlwind of gleaming steel.

Yet Medic remained composed.

He raised his bonesaw just in time to catch the edge of her blade, sparks flying as the weapons clashed. The force of her strike made his arm tremble, but he did not falter. His free hand shot forward, aiming to strike her pressure points, but she twisted away, using her momentum to deliver a sharp kick to his side.

He staggered slightly, his lab coat billowing with the movement, but his expression remained calm. "Ach... such anger. Such hatred," he murmured, almost to himself. "For vhat? For Bols? Or for yourself?"

Kurome let out a growl, dashing forward again, her speed increasing. "I don't need to explain myself to you!"

Her strikes became faster, more erratic, yet no less lethal. Each movement was laced with a deep, burning pain—a girl who had spent her entire life killing, who had lost everything, but the mission given to her. Medic, for all his usual sadism, found himself oddly detached in this moment.

Not a doctor playing God. Not a man enjoying the thrill of pain. Just a soldier facing another soldier.

He ducked under a horizontal slash, twisting his body to avoid the second strike. With a sharp inhale, he feinted to the side and brought his bonesaw downward in a brutal arc. Kurome barely managed to deflect it, but the force sent her staggering.

Medic capitalized instantly. He stepped forward and struck her wrist with calculated precision, loosening her grip just enough. In a swift, practiced motion, he wrenched her blade from her grasp and sent it skidding across the dirt. Before she could react, he caught her by the collar and yanked her forward, his eyes meeting hers.

For the first time in a long while, he hesitated.

She was young. So young.

He had seen children thrown into war before—had treated their broken bodies, had listened to their dying gasps on the operating table. He had hardened himself to it, convinced himself that war devoured innocence and left only soldiers in its wake.

But looking into Kurome's rage-filled, grief-stricken eyes, he wondered: was she truly his enemy, or merely another victim?

Kurome struggled, but his grip was firm. "Kill me," she spat. "If you're going to take me, then at least have the guts to finish it!"

Medic's lips pressed into a thin line. "Nein."

With that single word, he drove his knee into her gut, knocking the wind from her lungs. Kurome choked, her struggles weakening, and in one swift movement, Medic hoisted her unconscious form onto his shoulder.

Heavy, who had been watching in silence, finally spoke. "What will you do with her?"

Medic adjusted his glasses, his sinister smirk absent for once. His voice was quieter, lacking its usual theatrical arrogance. "She is not lost yet. I vant to know... if she can be saved."

Heavy regarded him for a long moment before giving a slow nod. He said nothing more.

The battle was over. But the war inside them was only beginning.

The silence stretched between them as Medic adjusted his hold on Kurome's unconscious form. The weight of her small frame felt heavier than it should have. Not in mass, but in meaning. He had taken many lives, saved many more, but rarely had he ever taken a prisoner—not like this. Not with questions gnawing at the edges of his mind.

As they began their trek back, Heavy finally broke the silence. "She fights with fury, like a soldier with nothing left."

Medic nodded slowly. "Ja. She fights as if she has never had a choice."

They walked in silence for a while longer before Heavy spoke again, his voice thoughtful. "You think she can change?"

Medic exhaled, adjusting his glasses. "I do not know. But I vill find out. If she is only what zhey made her... or if there is more beneath." His grip tightened slightly. "Perhaps zhere is hope yet."

As the sun continued its relentless watch overhead, the two men carried on, the girl between them a symbol of something more than just another battle won or lost. She was a question waiting to be answered.

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, its golden rays casting long shadows across the battlefield. The heat of midday had begun to wane, replaced by the cool whisper of approaching evening. The scent of blood still lingered, mingling with the damp earth, a grim reminder of the brutal battle that had unfolded just hours before.

Akame moved swiftly through the forest, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to hurry, to reach Chelsea before it was too late. She had seen too much death, lost too many comrades, and she refused to lose another. When she finally spotted Chelsea, crumpled against the roots of a massive tree, her breath caught in her throat.

The once-vibrant assassin was barely clinging to life, her face pale, her breathing shallow and ragged. Blood soaked her tattered clothes and seeped into the earth beneath her, a stark contrast to the soft golden hues of the setting sun. Akame fell to her knees beside her, her hands hovering uselessly over Chelsea's broken body.

"Chelsea! Stay with me!" she urged, her voice tight with desperation.

Chelsea's eyelids fluttered open at the sound of her voice. Her usually sharp, confident gaze was dulled by exhaustion, but she still managed a weak, teasing smile. "Akame... you're late."

"Don't speak," Akame whispered, her fingers trembling as she pressed them against one of Chelsea's wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. But she already knew. It was too late. "I'll get you help. Just hold on."

Chelsea exhaled shakily, shaking her head. "No... no time. Listen to me. Medic... took Kurome."

Akame's breath hitched, her blood running cold. "Medic? The doctor? He took her?"

Chelsea coughed, a pained wince crossing her features. "He and Heavy... they took her. I don't know why. But if he's experimenting on her, then... we may have made things worse."

Akame clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. If what Chelsea said was true, if Medic had taken Kurome for some twisted experiment, then it could spell disaster for Night Raid and the entire rebellion. Medic's abilities were terrifying enough, but if he turned his genius toward enhancing Kurome, she could become an even deadlier threat.

"We'll get her back," Akame promised, her voice steel. "You have my word."

Chelsea exhaled slowly, her body relaxing slightly. "Good... I knew I could count on you..."

A weak smile ghosted across her lips before her body stilled. Her chest no longer rose and fell. The light faded from her eyes, leaving them empty and lifeless.

Akame bowed her head, closing Chelsea's eyes with a trembling hand. Another comrade lost. Another friend stolen by this cruel world. She stayed kneeling beside her, the weight of yet another loss pressing down on her shoulders like an unbearable burden.

Hours had passed since the battle, but the weight of it still lingered. The forest had fallen into an eerie silence, as if even the wind and the trees mourned the fallen. Heavy and Medic trudged through the undergrowth, their footsteps heavy, their expressions unreadable.

Heavy carried the lifeless body of Bols in his arms, cradling him with the solemnity of a soldier honoring a fallen comrade. His massive hands, so accustomed to crushing enemies, now held the corpse with surprising gentleness. His usual jovial nature had long since faded, replaced by something unreadable.

Beside him, Medic carried Kurome's unconscious form. Unlike Bols, she was still alive, though for how much longer remained uncertain. Medic's grip was firm but careful, his expression eerily calm. But there was something different about him now—something uncertain, something human.

They didn't speak as they walked, the weight of what they had done, of what was yet to come, pressing down on them like an unspoken burden.

It was Scout and Demo who found them first. The two mercenaries had been sent to search for their missing teammates, but neither had expected to stumble upon such a sight.

Scout slowed to a stop, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. "Yo... what the hell happened?"

Demo, more perceptive, quickly noticed the change in their expressions. This wasn't the aftermath of a victorious battle—it was something else entirely.

"Who's the girl?" Demo asked, nodding toward Kurome.

Medic adjusted his grip slightly. "An experiment... perhaps a patient," he murmured. "I have not yet decided."

Scout gestured at Bols. "And him?"

Heavy didn't answer right away. He simply looked down at the man in his arms, then back at his teammates. "A soldier," he finally said, his deep voice quieter than usual. "A good man."

Scout frowned, confused. "He was the enemy, though."

Heavy exhaled through his nose, shifting Bols slightly. "Not all enemies are evil. Some fight because zhey must."

Demo nodded slowly. "Aye... I get that. War ain't simple."

There was a long silence before Medic finally spoke again, his voice devoid of its usual arrogance. "Zhis girl... she is more than just an enemy. I need to understand vhat zhey did to her. Vhy she fights. If she can be... changed."

Scout scratched the back of his head. "Man... this is a lot."

Heavy nodded. "Ja. It is."

And with that, they continued walking, disappearing into the fading light, leaving Scout and Demo behind. The two mercenaries watched in silence as their teammates carried the weight of both the past and the uncertainty of the future on their shoulders.