Sunday is pleading with him. Not for safety. Not for rescue.
No. He’s imploring Federico to run. To leave him behind.

A sharp, painful breath catches in Federico’s throat. His chest seizes. It aches.

An Executor honors—

"I—"

Carries out the wills of the dead—

"Sunday—"

And the dying.

His throat burns, tightens, like a vice around his voice. The words refuse to come out. His breath shudders violently as he pushes himself up on trembling hands and knees, fighting against the hands clawing at him, the inhuman grips pulling him back. He lunges for his weapon, fingers brushing the grip before another yank tears him away.
He gasps, chest heaving. He can’t look away. He can’t.

He can't save him.

Sunday is dying right in front of him—and Federico can do nothing to stop it. A fractured breath rattles out of him. His hands clench against the cold, unyielding floor. His vision is a blur, burning.

"I—I..." His voice cracks. This is his duty. He has always honored his duty. He has always carried out the wills of the dead with unwavering certainty.

But this. This.

This is the hardest vow ever asked of him. Because for the first time in his life, his duty is in direct opposition to his desires.
And he is losing.

His chest shudders with the effort of breathing, of forcing the words out when everything inside him screams against it.

"I... swear it."

Something wet slips down his face, warm against the unnatural chill in the air. He doesn’t know what it is. He doesn't care.

"It will be done."

Sunday's eyes slip shut. His body gives way to the mirror’s pull. A breath, half-drawn—then silence.

He is gone.

The breath stutters in Federico’s lungs. His head bows forward, shaking, his fingers clawing against the ground as though he can ground himself against the unbearable weight pressing down on him. Tears strike the floor. His shoulders quake.

He’d failed.

Sunday’s gone.

He’d failed.

The words hammer into his skull, over and over, a crushing, relentless certainty.

He’d failed.

But an Executor still has a will to execute.

A broken, guttural noise wrenches out of his throat. His hands tremble as he reaches for the clasp of his cloak, unfastening it, letting it slip away as the clawing hands snatch it. Slowly, shakily, he forces himself upright, staring down the distorted, grinning thing in Sunday’s stolen shape.

Every fiber of his being screams for him to raise his gun, to take one of his precious few originium bullets and put it through its skull.

Instead, he turns.

He runs.

Before the hands can seize him again. Before the twisted echoes of Sunday’s voice can sink their claws into his mind. Before the resonance between them, once sharp and familiar, now empty and silent, can suffocate him completely.

He runs.

Sunday’s final words reverberate through his mind, over and over, in circles.

"Swear it to me. Protect yourself. Protect the others."

His vision is a mess of blurred shapes and flickering shadows. He can’t see. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t look at the figures shifting behind the glass.

All he can do is run.

He doesn't know how long he runs, how far he goes, where he is. He doesn't know. It's like his mind has no capacity to consider those questions. But at some point, his legs finally give out. He stumbles, crashes to his knees, chest heaving, lungs raw. His wings curl around him, folding in tight as his body shakes, wracked with broken, choking sobs. He tries to stop. He can’t stop.

Crying is useless. It fixes nothing. It serves no purpose.

It won’t stop.

Sunday is gone.

And the weight of his dear friend's will crushes down where it's stored over Federico’s heart.

He had failed.