Klaus woke with a start, his breath ragged, his body drenched in sweat. The faint light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains of his room, casting long shadows across the ceiling. The lingering fragments of his nightmare clung to him like cobwebs—disjointed flashes of a battlefield, a searing pain in his chest, and a voice that wasn't his, yet echoed in his mind.
He sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. These dreams… no, these memories—were becoming clearer with each passing night. But they weren't his memories; he knew that much now. The man in the dreams—the one who fought and bled and screamed—was someone else—someone older, stronger, and far more broken than Klaus wanted to admit.
