“Frederick,” I say, voice soft but firm.
He snorts — a brittle sound. “Ayla Verne,” he croaks, voice like gravel mixed with molten lead. “Come to watch me rot?”
“This isn’t death,” I say, each syllable measured. “Not yet. You still breathe, still plot. That means you’ve not earned oblivion.”
He lifts his head slowly — eyes like embers, staring past me like he’s trying to see through memory and shadow.
“You,” he rasps. “You walked… away.”
I feel Kallus’s presence behind me — quiet, like a storm on the horizon that’s already begun.
“I didn’t walk away,” I correct. “Ichosesomething better. Something real.”
Frederick’s scarred lips twitch — a half-snarl, half-sneer. “You think you’re better because you still hold onto love. That’s weakness.”
I take a step closer. The smell of antiseptic and agony clings to him, but beneath it… there’s something else. Something like fear.
“You burned,” I say, voice low but cutting through the static hum of the machinery, “but you didn’tlearn.”
He squints, trying to focus — probably trying to placemeaningto my voice, my tone, my presence. His eyes flick between Kallus and me, attempting recognition, denial, confusion — but memory slides just out of reach, like water running through fingers.
“Purity,” he breathes. “Ascendance…”
“What you called purity was nothing but obsession,” Kallus says from behind me, voice rich with calm — a predator measuring its kill. He crosses his arms, broad shoulders filling the space, presence like stormsteel. “You starved the world of compassion. Called it survival.”
Frederick’s gaze narrows — or tries to. The chair quivers with his attempt to rise. “Earth… needs me,” he mumbles.
A tremor runs through Kallus’s hand — not aggression, but precision.
“He won’t hurt anyone else,” I say, voice firm. “Not today.”
Frederick’s eyes flit between us — anger, confusion, denial, desperation. His body shakes with strain — every mechanical system here humming to keep his burned flesh and failing organs functioning.
I watch him twitch — and inside that twitch, I see the shape of a man who lost his future long before we ever found ours.
He snarls — a sound like rusted metal grinding against bone.
“You… will see,” he hisses. “Human… supremacy…”
His words falter.
His strength falters.
And then Kallus steps forward.
“Frederick,” Kallus intones — a name like verdict and sentence. “You are done.”
Frederick’s gaze snaps up — defiance blazing like a dying star.
“Cowards die,” Frederick spits. “But I — Iremakethe world!”
Kallus’s voice is calm, lethal, and final:
“That ship sailed with your last breath.”
Frederick tries to lunge — the chair restraining him, servos straining — but his arm jerks instead.
Kallus steps in like gravity itself has weight, and with one clean strike… Frederick’s resistance ends abruptly. Kallus’s blow lands flush — a technique perfected beyond brutality, rooted in mercy disguised as violence. Frederick collapses in the chair, limbs slack, eyes fluttering, consciousness snuffed like a candle in wind.
