Rex once forced his body to stand.
I wonder how many times I witnessed him doing this.
Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, but he didn't stop.
He barely managed to stand, using what little strength he had left in him. His legs wobbled, his breathing was ragged, and his head felt too heavy to lift.
Still—he moved forward.
One step.
Then another.
He dragged one of his broken legs forward. A sharp, burning pain shot through his entire body, and I felt all of it.
It was truly unbearable.
Like something was tearing through his flesh, stabbing his bones with every slight movement he made.
Yet, he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Not when Lucy was still out of his reach.
Not when those bastards had taken her.
"Help..."
His voice was weak, barely above a whisper.
Still, he pleaded to the people around him.
Even though he knew they wouldn't help.
Even though he knew they would turn their backs.
Still, he tried.
Because somewhere, deep down, he wished, he hoped.
