Chapter Text
He had a plan once. He'd mapped it out with such care—each dream, neatly lined up like pictures pinned to a wall. Marry Cindy. Keep traveling the world with Noct. Become a famous photographer whose snapshots could make people smile, or cry, or remember something good.
It was supposed to be simple, honest, happy.
And yet here he stood, gripping his pistol, staring into the flames and shadows as three towering daemons rose from the darkness. The ground trembled beneath their feet, whispering warnings he wished they'd heard long ago.
How did this become their future?
He remembered the exact moment things changed, the instant fate had swerved wildly off course. It was the fall of Insomnia—a city that was never truly his, but a home nonetheless. Niflheim blood flowed through his veins, but he'd rejected it, embraced a new home, a new family. The one he'd chosen was now burning, reduced to ashes.
Noctis was King now—far too soon. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
It wasn't supposed to happen at all.
He often thought of Lunafreya. It was because of her that he had found a family in the first place—when he'd rescued her dog, her gentle gratitude was unexpected. When she wrote that she hoped he and Noctis could remain good friends, he’d stared at the words until they'd blurred.
Friends? With the prince?
It took time. Years. But somehow they became something even deeper than friends—brothers. And it was because of her, though he'd never had the chance to thank her properly. He never met Luna face-to-face, never told her what her kindness had meant, never expressed his gratitude for Noctis, Gladiolus, or Ignis. Never said thank you for making his life matter.
Now, it was too late.
"Noctis will come back," he'd whispered to himself every day, year after year, until the mantra was etched into his soul. Hope had kept him going. It was all he had left after ten endless years of darkness.
And then Noct returned, alive but different. His friend, his brother, ready to take his rightful place. But the victory felt empty, bittersweet. Prompto knew that Noct would save them, but he'd never get to share in the world they’d fought for. That was never how their story was meant to end.
Around that final campfire, they’d sat in heavy silence. Prompto wanted desperately to say something—anything—but words felt useless after a decade of waiting.
Should he say he missed him? Welcome home? Let’s go save the world?
No, he only wished he could turn back the clock, rewrite their futures, erase their scars.
But wishes changed nothing.
And finally, Prompto accepted the truth—the bitter knowledge that this night would be their last.
The daemons approached, shadows towering, and Prompto’s heart raced with defiance. The battle raged around him, impossible and endless, yet he shot until he ran out of bullets, and then, in a final futile act, he hurled his gun uselessly at the giant.
Breathing heavily, with the world spinning around him, he reached for his camera. One last picture. A stupid idea, but someone would find it. Someone would see them. They’d understand what Noctis had sacrificed, what they'd all sacrificed.
He framed the monster in the lens, chose his favorite filter—one last act of rebellion, of remembrance.
And the last thing Prompto saw through the camera was the daemon's blade descending.
The shutter clicked.
Glass shattered.
Darkness fell.