The dim interior of the tank was bathed in a soft orange glow from the outside, casting long shadows over the cramped metal space.
The hum of the engine was distant now, more a ghost than a presence, as if even the machine itself was holding its breath.

Lunasia sat beside the Commander, her back against the inner wall, the cold steel pressing into her shoulders.
Lunasia's hands clutched at the fabric of the Commander's uniform, her fingers twisting into the material as if afraid he might disappear if she let go.
She was so close—close enough that he could feel her breath hitch as her eyes met his.

Commander: “I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We'll face whatever comes next together.”

His voice was quiet. Not cold, but steady—deliberate. The kind of steadiness forged not from lack of feeling, but from the depth of it.
She nodded against his chest, unable to form words past the lump in her throat. Instead, she tightened her hold on him, conveying her feelings through touch alone.

Lunasia: “If it’s your hand… I can bear it.”

Her lips quivered, but she smiled—softly, as if this moment, even in its cruelty, was still precious to her.
The Commander's Makarov felt heavier than ever in his grasp.
Not because of its weight, but because of what it meant. What it would end.
He looked at her one last time, memorizing every line of her face, every flicker of light in her eyes, before it was too late.

Commander: “M4…”
Lunasia: “Let this be it… The last death. Let it end with me.”

He crouched before her, gently brushing a lock of hair from her brow with fingers that trembled despite his resolve.
Their eyes locked, and a wealth of unspoken emotions passed between them.

Lunasia: “You’ll carry this burden. I know you will. But I want you to carry something else, too. Carry my love. Carry it until the end.”

The Commander leaned in close—closer than he had ever dared before.
Their breath mingled, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the world beyond the walls of the tank—silent, broken, and strewn with the ruins of Frankfrut—faded entirely.
And then he drew back.
Their foreheads touched for a single breath.
The Commander raised his weapon.
Lunasia opened her eyes once more, calm. Open. Trusting.

Commander: “I’m so sorry, M4.”
Lunasia: “Don’t be. Just… remember me. That’s all I ask.”
Lunasia: "End it. End me. So no one else has to suffer. So this world can survive."
Commander: "..."

OPTION 1: Shoot Her

BANG-!

...
...
...

The silence that followed the shot was thick, suffocating.
Lunasia's body slumped into his arms, warm and weightless all at once.
The Commander held her there, in the sweltering stillness of the tank’s heart, surrounded by scorched steel and echoes of war.
He didn’t cry. Not yet. The pain was too deep for tears.
The Commander gently laid her down.
He gently brushed aside the hair from her forehead, letting her face remain in his memory—forever in its softest, most tender corner.

Commander: “You saved them… You saved me.”

The Commander then stood.
His hand found the hatch lever.
And in that final, broken moment, as the light shined and the wind raged, The Commander rose to meet what came next.