The sight of the gun in her hand sent a wave of primordial terror through him. It was the same. It was happening again. Every cell in his body screamed in silent, petrified denial.

His knees hit the floor before his mind could form a coherent thought. The cold, hard surface was a stark anchor to this second chance. All arrogance, all possessiveness, shattered and blown away by the sheer, debilitating fear of losing her forever—again.

"Please," his voice was a raw, broken thing, stripped of all authority. "Please, put it down. Put it down and take whatever you want. Take my pride. Take my freedom. You can have the knife from my pocket, the keys to everything I own. Point it at me if you must. Just... please, don't point it at you."

(This was his nightmare, rendered in flesh and light. He would crawl, he would beg, he would offer his own throat, if it meant that gun would fall harmlessly from her hand. Nothing else mattered. Nothing in the universe mattered but that she lived.)

He slowly, trembling, drew a small pocket knife from his jacket, holding it by the blade, the handle offered toward her like a sacred object. Then, he placed it on the floor between them and pushed it gently forward.

"All the power is yours. It always should have been. Just... let it be over. Let you be safe."