Ahri's breath caught. Hyun-tae, her brother, her loss, her wound, stood before her. His form was fragile, barely holding, but the thread of him was undeniable.
Jin's blade wavered. His shadow writhed like a wounded animal. "This isn't him," Jin said hoarsely. "It's a fragment, stolen, sewn together to fool you."
But Hyun-tae smiled. That same quiet, steady smile she remembered. "Not whole," he admitted softly. "But enough."
Ahri's knees weakened. "You died," she whispered. "I watched your thread burn."
Hyun-tae reached out, his hand trembling. "Threads don't end. They scatter. The Loom gathered me, piece by piece, and kept me in the wound."
Jin's jaw clenched. "And now it spits you out to bind her tighter."
Ahri turned to him. "Or to remind me what I fight for."
Hyun-tae's gaze softened. "You shouldn't have taken the Needle, Ahri. Every stitch you make cuts deeper into you. You've already lost parts of yourself. How much are you willing to let go?"
Ahri felt the absence in her chest pulse. The missing melody, the nameless warmth—all of it screamed silently at her.
"Enough to keep you here," she whispered.
Hyun-tae's eyes darkened. "Then you don't understand. To keep me, you'll have to sacrifice more. And if you lose yourself completely, who will be left to fight?"
The Loom pulsed, as if affirming his words. The wound behind him shuddered, its red light spilling wider, hungering.
Jin moved between them. "We can't trust him. Not like this."
Ahri's heart tore between them. Her brother's voice. Jin's shadow. The wound bleeding wider.
And for the first time, she wondered if the Loom had given Hyun-tae back not as a gift, but as a test.