Tears began to fall, silent yet relentless, tracing lines down his hardened face. He did not wipe them away; he let them flow freely as he stared blankly at the wooden floorboards beneath him. His chest ached, an empty void where his heart once thrived. The pain was unbearable, but he bore it alone, just as he always had.

"Elara..." he whispered, his voice barely audible. The name was both a comfort and a curse, a reminder of what he had lost, of the warmth that had been torn from his life. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as guilt surged through him like a violent storm.

He blamed himself. No matter how many times he replayed the events in his mind, no matter how much logic told him otherwise, the weight of her death rested solely on his shoulders. He should have been stronger. He should have been faster. He should have protected her.

He felt alive, yet dead on the inside. A hollow existence, a being stripped of everything that once made him human. Even vengeance, the only driving force left within him, felt empty. He had killed Zydeco, yet the void remained. Nothing changed. Nothing could bring her back.

The town bustled outside his window, the sounds of laughter and life mocking his pain. But he did not care. The world moved on, indifferent to his suffering. And so he sat, drowning in the agony of his own thoughts, waiting for the day when his vengeance would finally mean something-if it ever did.