"—You're not Princess Theresa, are you?"
Even unable to assume a defensive stance, Revy would never act disrespectfully toward someone bearing that face—no matter how false the image.
But the initial burst of emotion had now settled, allowing his mind to cool.
Intense feelings cloud judgment—especially in a surreal space like this "dreamscape." Rationality was paramount.
And deep down, he already sensed it.
This "Theresa" wasn't the same person he had once sworn his life to protect.
(Who is she, really?)
She hesitated at first—but then gave him an answer, calm and composed:
"I'm not the person you think I am."
Revy's brows furrowed.
His feelings toward Theresa were never simple.
Loyalty as a subject, certainly—but beneath that, something more fragile, more intimate, something he had buried so deeply that he had never dared give it voice.
Then, three years ago, the one he had sworn to protect—died before his eyes.
Along with her… a piece of himself also died.
That day, Regulus Harvey—the Sarkaz noble—ceased to exist.
Sometimes she still appeared in his dreams. But always as a distant figure, unreachable and silent—a ghost separated by the boundary of life and death.
But now?
This "Theresa" was so vivid, so real.
Even if she had denied it.
"If you're afraid, there's no need to be…"
Seeing that he remained guarded, "Theresa" sighed softly, took a step closer, and gently took Revy's right hand in hers.
"Feel this—my hand. My body. Do you understand now?"
He said nothing.
But yes. He understood.
He was holding her hand—the same hand of the woman he would never have dared to reach for in life.
It was soft. Warm. Gentle.
But beyond the physical, something else resonated.
Everything around him—the sky, the palace, the clouds overhead—felt like a piece of his soul. All coexisting in this strange realm as if they belonged there.
Like bubbles glowing beneath sunlight—beautiful, fragile, fleeting.
(Could she be right? Is this dream just a reflection of my subconscious? A world conjured from fragments of thought?)
(But then—why her? Why Theresa? Is it connected to what happened three years ago…?)
For once, Revy allowed himself to revisit that day.
The day everything went wrong.
Just remembering it was enough to bring pain.
No matter the reasons "he" had for doing what he did, Revy still believed one thing: if he had been there—Theresa wouldn't have died.
He had failed her.
He had betrayed her trust.
He had hated. He had despaired. Until finally, he sealed away all emotion and took on a new name—"Revy," the Catastrophe Messenger.
But now, here in this gentle but haunting dream, the truth seemed determined to claw its way back.
(Wait… something's wrong… What is it? Why can't I—?)
He couldn't remember.
He couldn't remember—or rather, something in him refused to.
Like a rusted lock, memory fought against his will. Every thought was like a nail being driven into his skull.
"What… what's happening to me?!"
The harder he tried to remember, the more unbearable it became. The memory resisted—like a sealed vault that punished any attempt to pry it open.
"Ghh… AAAAGGGHHHH!!"
The pain was excruciating. Even Revy, strong as he was, couldn't endure it. His body curled inwards, helpless against the agony, unable to even cry out.
(No… not yet. That memory… it's not time.)
"Theresa" rushed forward, kneeling beside him. Her hand gently touched his forehead.
As if dispelling the storm, her touch soothed him. The pain receded, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.
(For now… just rest, okay…?)
In the final moments before sleep took him, Revy lifted a trembling hand.
As if he couldn't bear to watch her fade again.
"Theresa… Your Highness…"
—Scene Transition—Chernobog, Local Time: 2:00 p.m.
Amiya's squad had been deep in Chernobog for over three hours.
At first, they had expected resistance—Ursus soldiers, patrols, military checkpoints.
But something was wrong.
The military presence had all but vanished, as if some invisible hand had pulled every soldier out of the city.
Amiya hadn't relaxed for a second.
This wasn't a coincidence.
The truth soon revealed itself: a massive Infected uprising had exploded across Chernobog. Entire regiments of rebel fighters were now battling with Ursus forces in broad daylight.
In the face of such chaos, Rhodes Island's stealth mission seemed irrelevant.
It wasn't good news.
So far, everything had gone perfectly. They had infiltrated Ursus territory, reached the Sarcophagus, and reawakened the Doctor without a hitch.
But just as they prepared to leave—war erupted around them.
Scout team? Missing.
E3 and E4 squads? Lost contact.
Now only Amiya, Dobermann, and a handful of elites remained. Surrounded by a city descending into civil war.
Trapped. Fatigued. Morale running dangerously low.
Even with the Doctor's tactical genius, each fight drained more of their energy.
And soon, their strength would fail.
Then they'd be finished.
Amiya turned her gaze to the Doctor—the young girl with an unnaturally calm expression, directing the battlefield like it was second nature.
But in her heart, Amiya—no matter how composed—couldn't help but wonder:
—If Revy were here…Would he already have found a way to win?