His body hurt. It hurt everywhere.
The taste of smoke and dust burned in his throat. A ribs ached, and his head pounded with the force of the impact that had sent him to the ground. The world refused to settle. Demons, a shattered barrier, a memory he had buried so deep he'd never thought it would resurface so clearly.
But he got up. He forced himself to his feet, swaying, his limbs heavy as stone.
He could not die here.
Sylvia died after telling him he had a purpose.
Luca did not understand what it all meant. He did not know why he was chosen, whether he deserved it, or why his entire life felt like it belonged to the world instead of him.
He would not spit on her death by dying here.
He raised his head, his gaze locking onto the young man standing before him. Green hair, dark brown eyes, a calm posture. The faintly disappointed expression remained, as if Luca had failed to meet some quiet, internal standard.
