The cathedral groaned under the pressure of existence trying to remember what it was supposed to be. Smoke drifted lazily across the fractured floor, curling around the golden blood Gereon still hadn't bothered to wipe away. He looked utterly composed, as if bleeding out was a minor inconvenience, something he'd handle after finishing his cigar.
For a few long seconds, no one moved. The only sound was Gereon's cigar crackling softly, like the universe itself was too nervous to speak. He exhaled a stream of smoke that curled into the shape of wings before dissolving into the air. It would've been majestic if it wasn't so smug.
Across the battlefield, May, Quill, and Luther stood in ragged formation. Their breaths came in uneven gasps, their armor cracked, eyes wild with exhaustion. May's spirit burned the brightest — defiance warring with terror.
