He is a savior. He rushes around the smoldering fires and gory rubble searching. Searching for anyone. Anyone wounded but alive. Searching for anyone in need of help, stuck, bleeding or broken. He is a savior but he knows what he can't do. He can't put together the girl blast into gibbets near ground zero. He can't help the broker with a caved in chest. He can't do miracles. He can't raise the dead. He wishes he could. He is a savior. He pulls bandages, tourniquets and alcohol from my insides. Applies them to the not yet doomed. Brings them back from the brink. I am helping. I am not enough. He will try to save them all. He will fail. He is a savior. He exits, caked in blood and ash. They praise his name but he wants none of it. It reminds him of his failure, of the tragedy. He is a savior but he doesn't want to be.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.