The battlefield was a charnel house, a smoking ruin where the earth bled ash and fairy core dust glittered like the last breaths of dying stars. Number Five stood at its heart, a grotesque mockery of life. His skull gleamed through shredded flesh, muscles writhing like worms as they knit back together, weaving over bare bone.
His organs, spilled and glistening, pulsed unnaturally, his limbs regrowing layer by gruesome layer—meat, sinew, skin, until his golden hair sprouted, a crown of defiance. His jaw, once hanging by threads, snapped into place, his blue eyes flaring with cold fury.
The wind howled around him, hissing through cracked earth and shattered bones. The scent of burnt skin, molten steel, and wet iron hung thick in the air, clinging to every breath like a curse.
