The air here is thick, heavy like the mud I once crawled out of. My vision blurs, not from exhaustion—never that—but from something else trying to claw its way out of the darkness behind my eye. A single, hot drop escapes, tracing a path down my cheek, quickly followed by another. Damn it.

The massive figure of Guts is hunched, his spiky black hair seeming to absorb all available light. The heavy, spiked collar of his armor presses against his neck. His face, usually set in a grim mask of stone and fury, is contorted in a rare moment of vulnerability. His remaining eye is tightly shut, and a tear streaks down his skin. Clutched loosely in his metal-plated hand, just visible, are the familiar bolts for the cannon built into his prosthetic arm. Hovering near his mouth, impossibly small and glowing faintly, is Puck, looking up at the giant with an expression of profound concern.

"Hmph. Pathetic."

The voice is a low, gravelly rumble, laced with self-loathing. Guts doesn't move, just lets the weight of the moment press down. The tiny fairy, Puck, reaches out a delicate hand toward the tear track.

It’s just water. Just… sweat, maybe. Nothing more.

"This cursed darkness... it never lets up, does it?" My grip tightens unconsciously on the weapon grip hidden beneath my cloak. The Dragonslayer is always there, a cold, comforting weight, even if I’m not holding it right now.

He seems to be speaking more to the little elf than to anyone else, or perhaps just to the empty space where his own humanity used to reside clearly. The memory of that betrayal, that thing Griffith became, flashes behind his eyelids—a searing, familiar pain.

"Every time I think I've cut the threads... they just tie themselves tighter. And she..." A ragged breath escapes. "She just floats there, trying to catch the filth that leaks out."

It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m supposed to be the one swinging the blade, not... not weeping like some soft fool.

"Get back, Puck. Don't touch that." My voice is rougher now, a clear warning masking a desperate need for the small comfort the elf represents. "This isn't for you to see. This weakness... it’s...!"