Scourge stared at her.
The silence could have lasted an eternity, so thick was the air between them. Then his gaze shifted — to the scar. Just above her heart. Pale. Uneven.
He had never noticed it before.
And on a body he had come to know — even without meaning to — it was impossible to miss.
His eyes narrowed.
"You can heal others without leaving a trace… but you keep that?"
His voice was low. Sharp. But there was no accusation in it. No mockery. Just a visceral discomfort with not understanding.
Illaoï glanced down at the mark, then slowly met his gaze again.
"Some wounds… must be chosen. Even when the body knows how to erase them."
She clutched the towel close — not out of modesty, but memory. The weight of it.
Scourge stepped forward. Just once.
Not close enough to threaten.
Too close to pretend indifference.
"Why do you look at me like you're trying to understand something you no longer believe is possible?"
The words — hers, once, spoken in a dream — now echoed back, sharper than ever.
And she felt it.
Illaoï held his gaze.
"Because you look like someone searching for something he can't remember the name of."
Her voice was soft.
But it was a blade.
Something tightened in his chest.
A sensation he hadn't felt in centuries. Maybe longer.
And he hated her for it.
But he couldn't step back now.
"You… changed me."
The words fell between them — heavy, blunt, brutal.
"It wasn't supposed to happen. None of this was. And I hate losing control."
"I'm the Emperor's Wrath. The final weapon. The chain on chaos. Not a man haunted by dreams of color and warm hands against his skin."
This time, Illaoï looked away. Not to flee — to breathe.
"You think I wanted this? That I chose you? That I invited you in, left the door open just for fun?"
She paused. Then added, quietly:
"I pushed you away. Over and over. But you clung on like a damned soul with nothing better to do than knock on the wrong door."
"And I… I left it ajar. Fool that I am."
For a moment, Scourge faltered. That voice. That look.
He wasn't a monster.
Not here. Not now.
He was a man standing at the edge of something he could neither name nor escape.
"I feel. I heal slower. I dream."
He clenched his jaw.
"Do you know what that means? What you've taken from me?"
Another step.
She didn't move.
"Or what you've given back?"
She bit her lip. Met his eyes.
"And do you realize… you're not falling alone anymore?"
A breath. Between them.
"That this might not be an accident. That maybe… maybe there's something after this?"
Silence.
Just the two of them — and the ghosts of who they'd once been crashing into the fragile selves they were becoming.
Then she brushed past him. Deliberate.
Close enough for him to feel her warmth.
"We don't choose what we awaken in others.
Or what they awaken in us."
She stopped near the door.
Shadow cast across her face like a silk veil.
Her hand on the handle, she didn't turn.
Scourge approached.
Not like a predator.
Not like a Fury.
But slower.
Heavier.
Human.
He leaned in — just enough that she could feel his breath, warm against her skin.
But he didn't touch her.
And then the thought struck him.
Like a knife.
What if she didn't want this?
He froze.
Waited.
He wouldn't force this.
Not her.
Not this time.
He waited…
…to be chosen.
Illaoï felt time stretch thin, unraveling around them. Her heart thundered. The weight of years — of everything she had buried — rushed toward the surface.
She turned.
But then it hit her.
A flash.
Not light — memory.
The room vanished.
The warmth was gone.
Fire.
A man — her man — against her, collapsing.
His body still warm.
His breath already fading.
And those last words, whispered through pain:
"I knew… you wouldn't let me… go alone…"
Then nothing.
Just the weight.
The silence.
Her scream — shattering the void of her own mind.
She gasped, back in the now. Frozen. Clutching her robe like a shield.
Scourge stared. Breath short.
He had seen it too.
Not all.
But enough.
Her mind had shown him a piece of her hell.
His eyes were heavy with questions.
"Who… was that man?"
He had stepped back.
Reflex more than will.
She didn't answer.
Her gaze — hollow. Not out of defiance.
Out of panic.
"Who was he, Illaoï?"
His voice wasn't angry.
It was straining.
Pleading.
He had to know. That memory wouldn't let him go.
But she couldn't breathe.
Her lungs curled in on themselves.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest. Gasped.
"Illaoï?"
He rushed forward just as she stumbled.
"Tell me — just tell me who—"
She collapsed to her knees.
The air left her in a ragged, rasping cry.
And then the pain.
Blinding.
Unforgiving.
"Illaoï?!"
She convulsed.
A spray of blood stained her chest, hot and horrifying.
"DOC!" he roared.
He caught her, arms trembling with terror. She was fading — fast.
A hand against her side.
Another behind her neck.
"Stay with me. I forbid you to—"
The door burst open.
Doc.
Kira.
Scourge had never looked so lost.
And this was only the beginning.