Above me, the sky is visible through a gaping hole in the roof. The sun is setting, painting the clouds in shades of orange and crimson. It's almost beautiful. Almost peaceful.

My vision blurs at the edges, and I feel the cold creeping in. It would be so easy to just close my eyes. So easy to let the darkness take me. I've done my job. I've lived my life. There's nothing left to hold onto.

But then I hear it. A voice. Distant at first, like it's coming from underwater, but growing louder with each passing second.

Don't you fucking die on me you piece of shit!

My eyes flutter open, and through the haze of pain and exhaustion, I see a figure scrambling through the debris. White armor, light hair, those thick-rimmed glasses I've seen a thousand times.

His hands grip my shoulders, shaking me roughly.

Three weeks later.

The headquarters is quiet for once. I shuffle down the hallway, one hand braced against the wall for support, the other pressed against the bandages still wrapped around my torso. The doctors said I'm lucky. That I should be dead. I'm starting to think they're right, because the phantom pains haven't faded and neither has the memory of those words.

I reach the common room and pause in the doorway. It's late afternoon, and the light filters through the grimy windows, casting everything in a warm glow. Formaggio is lounging on the couch, feet up on the coffee table, flipping through a magazine. Melone is at the small table in the corner, his laptop open, data streaming across the screen. Prosciutto stands by the window, coffee in hand, watching the street below. Risotto sits in his usual armchair, silent as ever, a book balanced on his knee.

But my eyes find him immediately. Ghiaccio. He's standing near the kitchen, back pressed against the counter, arms crossed. His jaw is tight, his dark eyes fixed on me the moment I appear. He doesn't move, doesn't speak. He just watches. He's been like this ever since I woke up, hovering in the background, always present but never close enough to touch.