Andrew's world spiraled into chaos. Every breath clawed at his throat, shallow and desperate. The spear in his neck radiated heat like molten metal, its serrated edges grinding with even the smallest twitch. Blood dripped in uneven streams down his collar, soaking into his torn shirt. His legs felt like dead weight—no, worse. They weren't there at all. Panic gripped him as he tried to move, but his lower body refused to obey.
Through the haze of pain, his gaze locked on Mella. She stood just meters away, trembling so violently that her weapons rattled against her belt. Her hands hovered near her mouth as if trying to stifle a scream, but her wide, tear-streaked eyes said it all.
Her lips quivered. "I… I didn't mean to." The words came out strangled. "I didn't—" Her voice broke. Her head jerked sharply to one side as though invisible hands had yanked it. Her limbs followed, stiffening unnaturally.
