CHAPTER 87: The Reunion

CHAPTER 87: The Reunion

The constant beep of the machine filled the room. Fénix opened his eyes with effort, barely aware of where he was. The first voice he heard was Enid's, hard, almost icy.

"Do you know how stupid what you did was, Fénix? Do you have any idea what you went through?"

"I..." he coughed, trying to sit up, but a pain forced him back onto the bed. "I guess... I'm alive, right? That counts."

"Don't joke!" Enid glared at him. "If we had arrived ten minutes later, you wouldn't be here."

"Even after losing, you wanted to keep fighting. That's a merit."

Fénix fell silent, looking at the ceiling before responding.

"I was with my father. With Karolus... or what was left of him."

Vanessa let out a low whistle, one eyebrow raised.

"I didn't imagine you'd survive that."

"And is that supposed to justify you taking such a risk?" interrupted Enid sharply. "You have a duty to all of us, not just your personal history!"

"I know." Fénix turned his head to look at her. "And for the first time... I feel like I'm not carrying that hatred that was rotting me inside. I listened to him, I understood what happened... and I forgave him."

Lucian watched him silently, processing his words. Vanessa, however, pursed her lips into a half-smile.

"Well, at least we gained something: a Fénix who no longer wants to tear his skin off with rage. Although... you're still an idiot for almost dying without warning."

Enid let out a sigh, though she didn't lose the hardness in her gaze.

"Don't ever do this again. Is that clear?"

"Clear." Fénix managed a tired smile.

Lucian placed a firm hand on his shoulder, reminding him he wasn't alone. Vanessa stood up, rolling her eyes, and walked to the window.

"Anyway... the good thing is you're still alive. Although knowing you, it won't be long before you get into the next crazy situation."

Fénix closed his eyes for a moment, breathing calmly. For the first time in a long time, he felt at peace with himself, accompanied by the few who were still with him.

The suitcases were already closed, their wheels leaving small tracks on the hospital's neat hallway floor. Fénix remained for a moment longer by the empty bed where, hours before, the body that was his father had rested. The cold light of dawn came through the curtains, and in that clarity, everything that had happened the previous night seemed reduced to a final confession.

"Goodbye," Fénix whispered, his voice hoarse. "Rest. You can finally stop burning in the sun."

They weren't grand words, they were just enough: a clean farewell, like putting a period after a long and painful story. He allowed himself to bow his head for a second, like someone sealing an intimate pact that no one else needs to know.

Then he carefully closed the room door. In the lobby, Enid, Lucian, Vanessa, and Marcus were waiting for him, each with their luggage and the expression of those who have seen too much and yet keep going.

"Ready?" asked Enid, crossing her arms but not taking her eyes off him.

"Yes," replied Fénix. "Let's go to Berlin."

They stepped outside. The air was cool and smelled of recent rain. A few meters away, on a bench in the square opposite the hospital, sat a figure that didn't fit the morning calm: a thin man with a sharp gaze, watching them attentively as if he had been waiting for that moment. He rose with deliberate slowness as he saw them approach.

"Well fought," the man said in a low voice, by way of greeting. "It was a worthy spectacle."

Fénix recognized him instantly: Darem. The presence of that name always brought a chill. He stopped in front of him, the group forming an expectant semicircle.

"Darem," Lucian greeted him in a measured tone. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see the end," replied Darem with a half-smile. "And to congratulate the one who doesn't give up."

Fénix nodded with contained tension.

"Thanks," he said. "It wasn't an ending I expected."

Darem stood up calmly. For a second, the air seemed thicker. With a quick, quiet gesture, he drew the bayonet he had concealed: a long, cold blade, ready for a sure strike.

"You have nothing to thank me for," murmured Darem, and in the same movement, he lunged with the bayonet towards Fénix.

It was a moment of shock: Darem came like a whip, straight on. Marcus and Lucian reacted, but the speed with which Darem closed the distance left everyone breathless. Fénix barely had time to react: he reached to his side, drew the Matilda, and fired.

The shot was accurate. The bullet hit Darem in the head. For a second, the entire square seemed to hold its breath; blood stained the fabric and the attacker's expression shattered. Darem fell, as if the world had suddenly left him.

But there was no definitive fall. In Fénix's eyes, there was brutal astonishment: the wound on Darem's forehead closed in seconds, the skin reforming, the blood as if receding. Darem slowly got up, with no apparent mark on his skull, even though the bullet had done its job, and a thin cut—a burning scratch—remained on Fénix's cheek.

Fénix felt the blood on his own skin; then, with the same disbelief, he saw how the red line on his cheek was already beginning to close, the flesh reforming as if the wound had no intention of staying. It began to scar in seconds, leaving only a faint line that would soon be a memory.