The door slid open with its soft, mechanical hiss. Wolfen stood in the threshold, silhouetted against the corridor's harsh light, a shape of darkness against grey. For a long moment, he didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there, looking at the glass tube, at the face that was and wasn't Eva's.
"Took you long enough," Tube-Eva said, her voice carrying that familiar, exhausted humor. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
Wolfen walked in. The door closed behind him.
He crossed the room slowly, each step heavy, measured. Not the fluid, predatory movement of the fighter they all knew. This was different. This was the gait of a man walking toward an execution he couldn't stop.
He stopped a few feet from the glass. Close enough to see the bubbles in the fluid, the pulse of light along the wires, the exposed brain with its constellation of electrodes. Close enough to see the exhaustion in those mercury-sheen eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said.
The words were quiet. Barely audible above the hum of machinery.
Tube-Eva's brow furrowed slightly. "For what?"
"I can't save you." His voice cracked on the last word—actually cracked, a fissure in the bedrock of his composure. "Eva. I'm sorry. Please. I'm so sorry."
Her eyes widened. Whatever she'd expected from him—sarcasm, deflection, maybe even cold practicality—it wasn't this. It wasn't the ancient, unkillable Wolfen Welfric standing before her with something that looked terrifyingly like tears threatening at the edges of his golden eyes.
Wolfen turned away. He walked to the nearest wall and slid down it, his back against the cold concrete, his legs splayed out in front of him. He looked... small. Diminished. The eternal flame reduced to embers.
He covered his eyes with one hand, the other limp at his side.
"I'm such a piece of shit," he said, his voice muffled. "I can't do anything. I can't save you. I couldn't save my family. I couldn't save anyone. What's the point of all this power if I can't—" His voice broke again. He didn't finish.
Tube-Eva watched him through the glass. The fluid continued its slow circulation. The heart in her open chest beat its steady rhythm. The wires pulsed with colored light.
"Wolfen." Her voice was soft, carrying through the speakers with a gentleness that seemed impossible given her circumstances.
He didn't respond. Didn't move.
"Look at me."
Slowly, he lowered his hand. His eyes were red-rimmed, the gold dimmed by something that looked ancient and raw and utterly human.
"Listen to me," Tube-Eva said. "I couldn't be saved in the first place. Not from the moment they put me in this tube. Not from the moment they cut away my arms and legs and left me as... this." She gestured as much as she could, a slight tilt of her head toward her own suspended organs. "There was never a version of this story where I walked out of here. There was never a version where I felt the sun again, or ate real food, or hugged someone. That's not failure, Wolfen. That's just... the way it is."
Wolfen's jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
"But you can save her." Tube-Eva's voice grew firmer. "The other me. The one outside. The one who runs and fights and loves and lives. You can save her. You can save all of them. That's not nothing, Wolfen. That's everything."
He shook his head slowly. "You don't understand. I've been alive so long. I've watched everyone I've ever cared about die. Everyone. My maker. My sister. Everyone. And I just... keep going. Like a curse. Like a disease that won't die."
"I understand more than you think." Her voice was quiet now, heavy with years of solitary observation. "I've been in this tube for decades, Wolfen. Watching. Recording. Seeing people come and go, live and die, while I just... floated here. I know what it's like to be trapped. To watch the world move on without you. To feel time passing like water through your fingers and know you'll never get to touch it."
Wolfen looked at her—really looked, past the horror of her existence to the person still somehow burning inside.
"You're not the best, Wolfen," she said. "You're not perfect. You're not some invincible hero who can fix everything. You're just... you. A guy with too much power and too many years and a really terrible sense of humor."
A sound escaped him—half laugh, half sob, completely broken.
"But that's enough," Tube-Eva continued. "Being you is enough. Not because you're powerful, or ancient, or special. But because you try. Because you keep trying, even when everything falls apart. Because you came back for them. Because you're sitting here, right now, crying over someone you barely know, because you couldn't save her."
Wolfen wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. The gesture was so human, so ordinary, it made the moment somehow more devastating.
"You just have to be you," she said softly. "That's all any of us can do. That's all anyone ever could do."
The silence stretched between them, filled with the hum of machines and the weight of centuries.
Finally, Wolfen spoke. His voice was rough, scraped raw. "You're pretty wise for a brain in a jar."
Tube-Eva laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her. "I've had a lot of time to think."
He nodded slowly. Pushed himself to his feet. Walked back to the glass and pressed his palm against it, just below her floating face.
"I'll save her," he said. "The other you. I swear it."
"I know you will." Her smile was tired, but real. "Now go. She needs you. They all need you. And I'm getting tired."
Wolfen held her gaze for one more moment. Then he turned and walked to the door.
"Wolfen." Her voice stopped him. He looked back.
"Thank you. For trying. For caring. For being you."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. The door opened, closed, and he was gone.
Tube-Eva watched the empty space where he'd stood. The fluid continued its slow circulation. The heart beat on.
For the first time in decades, she felt something almost like peace.