A thin, red cut formed where the blade had touched Dorion's skin.
But he didn't care.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't react.
Instead, he grinned—a slow, tired smirk—before his body finally collapsed onto the blood-soaked ground.
Every nerve in his body screamed in agony.
His wounds throbbed. His vision darkened. His limbs felt like lead.
But Dorion just lay there.
Still. Motionless.
If not for the faint rise and fall of his chest, he could've passed for a corpse.
Then...
Shff.
A slow, dragging footstep broke the silence.
Dorion's ears twitched.
He didn't have to look to know who it was.
Ezekiel.
Their relationship was a mess—a mix of rivalry and reluctant dependence.
They fought. Argued. Hated each other's decisions.
But in the end, in this hell, they only had each other.
Ezekiel stopped, looming over Dorion's beaten, unmoving body.
For a moment, he just stood there.
Then, in a dry, flat tone, he asked—
"You dead yet?"
Dorion didn't answer.
Didn't even move.
