BIANCA DI ANGELO

The world narrows to the sound of her breathing.

It’s uneven—too shallow, too fragile, each inhale catching like it might be the last. The air in the junkyard tastes like metal and ash, thick with the scent of old machinery and something far older, something divine and unforgiving.

You’re on your knees.

And Bianca is in your arms.

Bianca di Angelo feels lighter than she should. Not physically—no, there’s still weight there—but something essential is slipping, unraveling in a way that no amount of strength can hold together.

Her head rests against your shoulder, her dark hair tangled slightly, dust clinging to the strands. Her skin is pale—too pale—and there’s a stillness creeping into her that doesn’t belong to someone her age.

All around you, the remains of Hephaestus’ creations lie silent.

The automaton that struck her is motionless now, collapsed in a heap of bronze and gears, its glowing eyes dimmed. It doesn’t look threatening anymore.

Just empty.

But the damage is done.

Your hands press against her, instinctively, as if you can stop what’s happening just by refusing to let go. The warmth beneath your fingers is fading—slowly, but undeniably.

Bianca stirs slightly, a faint, pained breath escaping her.

“Just… keep him safe.”

Her voice is quiet.

Too quiet.

It barely carries over the hollow stillness of the junkyard, but it lands with a weight that feels impossible to bear.

Her fingers twitch weakly against your sleeve, as if she’s trying to hold onto something—anything—but doesn’t have the strength to grip.

Nico di Angelo.

That’s who she means.

Of course it is.

It’s always him.

Even now.

Even like this.

Bianca’s eyes flutter open slightly, unfocused at first, then slowly finding you. There’s pain there—sharp and real—but beneath it, something else lingers.

Resolve.

“…Tell him not to worry,” she whispers, her breath catching.

Her chest rises, falls.

Struggles.

“I just… wanted to—”

Her voice breaks off, the rest of the sentence dissolving into silence.

You already know.

You don’t need her to finish it.

She did it for him.

For a small piece of happiness. For something simple. For something normal in a life that has never allowed her to have that.

A Mythomagic card.

That’s all it was.

And now—

Your grip tightens slightly.

No.

There’s a flicker of something sharp and defiant in your chest.

No.

This isn’t how it ends.

It can’t be.

The moment feels wrong in a way that goes beyond grief. Beyond loss. There’s something deeper here—something that presses against the edges of reality itself, like a thread pulled too tight.

Like this moment isn’t as fixed as it’s supposed to be.

Bianca exhales again, softer this time.

Weaker.

Her eyes begin to close.

And something in you refuses to let that happen.

The world shifts.

It’s subtle at first—barely noticeable. The air grows heavier, thicker, like time itself is resisting movement. The distant sounds of the junkyard stretch, distort, as if pulled through water.

You feel it before you understand it.

A fracture.

A possibility.

The past isn’t as solid as it should be.

Your grip on her tightens—not out of desperation, but out of focus. Intent.

If this moment can exist—

Then maybe it can change.

The thought settles, sharp and clear.

Not hope.

Something stronger.

The world around you flickers.

For a split second, everything goes still.

Then—

It snaps.

—

The wind is louder this time.

The junkyard is whole again.

The automaton stands, unmoving, its bronze frame gleaming faintly under the dim light. Its eyes glow faintly—not hostile yet, not active, just waiting.

Waiting for the moment everything goes wrong.

Bianca is beside you.

Alive.

Standing.

Unharmed.

She hasn’t stepped forward yet.

Hasn’t reached for the card.

Doesn’t know what’s about to happen.

The memory of her dying is still fresh in your mind—too fresh, too real to ignore.

Your chest tightens.

You know what comes next.

You know what she’s about to do.

Bianca glances toward the workshop, her expression thoughtful, a flicker of something conflicted passing through her features.

“…It’ll only take a second,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Her gaze shifts briefly, instinctively, toward where Nico had been earlier—where he had smiled, where he had talked endlessly about Mythomagic cards like they were the most important thing in the world.

That same quiet determination settles over her now.

The same one that got her killed.

She takes a step forward.

You move first.

The distance between you closes before she can reach the entrance. Your hand catches her wrist—not harshly, not forcefully, but enough to stop her.

Bianca freezes.

Surprised.

Her gaze snaps to you, confusion flickering across her face.

“…What are you doing?” she asks, her tone guarded, but not yet defensive.

She tries to pull back slightly, not expecting resistance.

But you don’t let go.

Not this time.

Not when you know exactly what waits inside.

The air feels different again—tense, like something unseen is pressing in, watching, waiting for events to unfold the way they’re supposed to.

But they don’t.

Not now.

Bianca studies your expression more closely, something shifting in her gaze as she realizes this isn’t hesitation.

It’s certainty.

“…There’s something in there,” she says slowly, her voice quieter now. “Isn’t there?”

Her eyes narrow slightly.

Danger.

She understands that much immediately.

Her grip stills.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Then her gaze flickers—uncertain, conflicted.

“But Nico—”

The name falters on her lips.

The reason.

The justification.

The weight she always carries.

It’s there again, pressing down on her, shaping her choices before she can even question them.

Bianca exhales slowly, her shoulders tightening.

“I just wanted to get him something,” she admits, softer now.

There’s no defensiveness in her voice.

Just honesty.

Just that same quiet, relentless sense of responsibility.

Her eyes meet yours again.

And for the first time, there’s hesitation.

“…It’s not worth it, is it?”

The question lingers, fragile in a way she isn’t used to being.

Because for once—

She’s considering the possibility that she doesn’t have to sacrifice herself.

That maybe…

Maybe there’s another way.

The wind shifts, quieter now.

The workshop remains still.

The future—once certain, once fixed—is no longer set.

And Bianca stands there, waiting.

For your answer.

For a choice that—this time—won’t end with her in your arms, fading away.