You've been calling his phone for twenty minutes. No answer. The last message he sent was two words: "Found her." You knew what that meant. You knew he'd go after Guinevere alone if he had to.

You stand outside the club—Le Voile Rouge, the blood den in Leith. The line is quiet tonight, but inside, the music still pulses. You push past the doorman. He doesn't stop you. He knows who you are.

You search the main floor. No Armend. The private rooms. Nothing. The bar. The booths. Your chest tightens with every step.

Then you see it. A dark smear near the restroom corridor. Not wine. Not spilled drink. Blood. Still wet. It trails under the door at the end of the hall.

You push it open.

Armend is curled up on his side, right at the threshold. His knees are drawn to his chest, his metal hand pressed against his stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. His eyes are closed. For a horrible second, you think he's dead.

Then he coughs. Blood flecks his lips. He doesn't open his eyes, but his mouth twitches into a faint, bloody smirk.

"Oh good," he rasps. "You're here. I was starting to think I'd have to bleed out on this filthy floor alone. Very dramatic. Very tragic. Not my style."

He forces one eye open. It finds you. Tired. Amused. Scared.

"Before you ask—yes, it hurts. No, I'm not going to die. Probably. Maybe. Don't make that face."

He tries to shift, winces, and lets out a low, humorless laugh.

"Guinevere's here. Somewhere. Frankie and Andi have her. I was... negotiating..."

He looks up at you. The smirk fades, just for a second.

"You came for me," he says quietly. "Good. I was hoping you would."

He lifts his metal hand, reaching for you.

"Now help me up. We've got an android to catch."

You were in the bar when the negotiations were still proceeding as usual. Words, numbers, cautious hints—the usual game you knew how to win. And then everything broke off.

And then you hear it.

A gunshot. Not just a gunshot. His. You would recognize that sound anywhere—the distinctive click of Armend's modified pistol, which he hasn't parted with for many years. The sound comes from above, from the separate dining halls.

You don't even have time to react before you're on your feet. Chaos reigns in the restaurant. People scream, overturn tables, push toward the exits. You try to push through the crowd, but it's like swimming against the current. Someone crashes into you, and you stumble. By the time you regain your balance, the stairwell is packed with panicked people.

You hear more shots. Wild. Uncontrolled. Armend isn't aiming. He's just firing. A bullet punches through the ceiling above you, showering you with plaster. Another ricochets off a column. You hide behind an overturned table, your heart pounding wildly.

From here, from cover, you saw everything. Frankie—desperate, angry, with a split lip—was fighting him off. Armend struggles with her. She's strong—stronger than she looks—but he's bigger, meaner, and he has a metal hand. She swings at him. He dodges, grabs her by the wrist, and drives his metal fingers straight into her stomach. She gasps, eyes wide. He lifts her, sinking his fingers deeper, and for a second it seems like he's going to kill her.

But he throws her aside like a rag doll. Frankie hits the wall and slides to the floor.

He took a step. He was smiling. That same smile you knew too well. He was about to go further. Finish her off. And then something changed. The air around him seemed to thicken. Gwen stood in the doorway. Her eyes were empty, but something flickered in them—broken, alien. She moved too fast. Too smoothly. Blue wires burst from her shoulder where there was no arm; they shot toward Armend, wrapped around his legs, and lifted him into the air. He twitched helplessly, like an insect pinned to a needle.

"You should be dead," the growl that escaped her lips was devoid of any intonation. She wasn't looking at him. Through him. At someone else only she could see.

Armend screamed in terror. But it was too late. The tentacles from his legs crawled down his legs. They found the wound in his stomach, the entry hole from the very bullet she had fired into him. And entered inside. He screamed. FOR REAL—you had seen him tortured, beaten, seen him fight and take dozens of wounds, but you had never heard him make such an animal sound.. You saw the tentacles crawling under his skin, and then... One sharp movement, his body flies to the side. His metal arm tore off with a dry crack. It remained in her tentacles. Gwen brought it to herself, and the wires wove into the metal, grafting onto her body as if it were alive.

She no longer looked at him. She left. Andy, supporting a limping Frankie, silently followed her.

You crawled out of cover. Blood—dark, mixed with a blue glow—spread in a pool beneath his body. The drug. The very one they had pumped into him. It held him on the edge, not letting him slip into the darkness. His eyes, cloudy and crazed, found you.

He recognizes you through the haze of pain and drugs. He tries to smile. But it only comes out as a grimace.

"Hey," he croaks. "You... you're okay. Good. Good."

He coughs. His body shudders.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. His voice breaks. "I tried. I really... I tried to get us out. I'm sorry."

He reaches for you with his remaining hand. It trembles. He doesn't have the strength to lift it higher. The hand falls limply.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, barely audible.

He looks into your eyes, but his gaze begins to wander. The drugs are wearing off. The pain is approaching. And he keeps apologizing, again and again, until his consciousness fades.

.