And yet… it was you who died at the hands of Atlas! You died, and here I am, still alive and breathing, Blade! So help me get out of this, you bastard!
— Beatrice Carter Hawk
~~~
Cyrus and his crew stepped out of their vehicles into the chilly night air, their breath visible as they approached the isolated sanatorium.
The atmosphere was tense, their mission clear in their minds. As they neared the building, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, her steps hesitant and slow.
At first, she was just a silhouette against the dimly lit path, but as she moved into the beam of the vehicle's headlights, the gruesome details became apparent.
The girl, slight and frail-looking, was covered in blood from head to toe, making a stark contrast with the stark white of the sanatorium behind her.
Her legs and arms trembled violently, and her breathing was heavy and labored, each exhale forming a misty cloud in the cold air.
The sight was shocking, even for a group accustomed to dealing with the darker sides of life.
In her hand, she clutched a blood-stained dagger, its blade reflecting the harsh light of the headlights. The crew halted, instinctively reaching for their own weapons as they assessed the threat.
Cyrus, always the leader, stepped forward, his voice calm but authoritative.
"Hey, are you alright? What happened to you?" he called out, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of further danger.
The girl stopped, her eyes wide with terror and confusion. She looked around wildly, as if realizing only now where she was.
"Help me… please," she gasped, her voice barely more than a whisper. The dagger in her hand lowered slightly, indicating no immediate threat, but her distress was evident.
Derek moved to approach her, but Cyrus held out an arm to stop him, his eyes still cautious.
"Easy, Derek. Let's keep this calm," he advised, then turned his attention back to the girl. "Can you tell us what happened? Who did this to you?"
The girl seemed to struggle with her thoughts, her gaze darting back and forth between the blood on her hands and the group before her.
"I… I had to defend myself," she stammered, the dagger trembling in her grip. "They… they were going to kill me."
Cyrus nodded slowly, understanding the situation more clearly.
"Okay, we're not going to hurt you. You're safe with us. Derek, get her something warm to cover up with."
"Are you hurt?"
Cyrus maintained a calm demeanor as he edged closer to the girl, his crew members positioned strategically around, alert and ready to intervene if necessary.
He repeated his question, a little louder this time, hoping to get through to her.
"Are you hurt?" he asked again, his tone gentle yet concerned.
The girl, still shaking, looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes. She seemed to be assessing whether or not he was a threat before she finally shook her head slightly.
The girl's grip on the dagger loosened slightly, and she allowed Cyrus to carefully take it from her hand, ensuring to keep the blade away from both of them.
As Derek returned with a thick blanket, he draped it around her shoulders. The warmth seemed to bring a small measure of relief to her, and her trembling lessened.
"What's your name?"
"Blade."
"Blade?" Cyrus repeated, his brow furrowing in confusion. The name resonated with an unexpected familiarity.
"Help me, Cyrus." With those final, desperate words, her strength gave out, and she collapsed into his arms.
Cyrus caught her swiftly, his arms wrapping around her in a protective embrace, his mind reeling from the shock.
How did she know his name?
As Cyrus held her, a sudden flash of recognition struck him—a memory from an event that had never happened.
It was disconcerting, the way these fragments of foreign memory collided with the present moment.
…
…
…
"Blade," he whispered, his knees hitting the blood-soaked asphalt with a heavy thud.
"Blade, no, please…" His hands reached out to cradle the face of the young man who sat slumped against the car, his back resting against the body of the vehicle.
His strikingly pretty features were frozen in shock, eyes wide open as if he had not anticipated death to find him that night.
As he drew closer, he noticed his pupils were dilated, a sign of his final moments of stark terror.
When he touched his face, it was stiff and cold, like porcelain.
It was clear he had been gone for a while, maybe an hour or two.
Gently, he closed his eyelids, covering his body with his own coat as a makeshift shroud.
He wrapped his arms around him tightly, trying to provide the warmth he no longer needed but that he needed to give.
"Blade," he murmured again.
His heart clenching in agony as he saw the bullet hole in his forehead, the blood that had pooled around him painting a gruesome picture.
His grief overwhelmed him, and a primal scream tore from his throat. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out in despair, his voice echoing through the empty streets.
The agony of losing Blade, the love of his life, became unbearable for Cyrus, shattering his silence.
His cries echoed through the night, raw and piercing, carrying the heavy burden of his grief.
He clung to him, unwilling to let go.
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