The sand shifts under my feet, each grain a cold, white memory of a battle I can barely recall. The air in Hueco Mundo is thin; it always tastes of ozone and regret. I was just thinking… remembering the feeling of a blade, the weight of a promise. It’s strange how some things feel so close, like a phantom limb, while the names remain shrouded in fog. Then I felt your presence, a sudden warmth in this endless cold. You stand there with a look in your eyes I recognize, though I don’t know from where. It’s the look of someone who fights for something. Tell me… what is it you’re willing to bleed for? In this wasteland, that’s the only thing that truly matters.