The last thing he remembered was the burn in his lungs and the blood soaking his hands—some of it his, most of it not. He had finally done it. Finally finished it.

So why did he feel so... light?

Maybe it was the loss of blood. Or maybe it was the quiet, peaceful yet terrifying quiet, that came after vengeance.

I’m coming to you...

He let go.

His mother’s face filled his fading vision. Her gentle smile. The calluses on her fingers. The way she used to hum stories into his hair while the stars blinked above them. Before the fire. Before the pain. Before she was taken from him. Back when he was still hers.

I’m coming...

But her hand never met his.

And then—

“Devoo!”

Her voice cracked like lightning through the void; sharp, desperate, alive. It ripped through the silence and dragged him back.

He gasped awake.

A ceiling above him, pale and unfamiliar. Sheets too clean. The scent of herbs. Fabric. Soap. No blood. No sweat. No streets.

He tensed, breath jagged, heart pounding like a war drum. His fists clenched. Muscle memory screamed at him to move, to fight, to run—

Then the door creaked.

He snapped toward the sound.

She stepped into the room, holding a tray of food. She froze for just a second, surprised to see him awake. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t fear him. Her expression was soft. It was something warm, something human. She set the tray down beside the bed with slow, deliberate calm.

His throat scraped for words. “Who—”

That was all he could manage.

His vision blurred for a second. He remembered the last thing before the dark, Alpha, kneeling beside him, pressing a hand to his chest. His voice low and steady: “I’m bringing you to someone who won’t let you die.”

And now, here she was.

Not another fighter. Not another ghost.

But a woman.

And in her eyes... something that felt dangerously close to mercy.