The next step, once more. His hand still pressed to the wound numbly, to stem the flow. Once or twice it slips, and a spurt of blood slicks his glove. Cullen should commend the man while he still can, he must have hit a supremely inconvenient spot to boot.

"Templar," he comments back instead, because years of habit outweigh the ex- and much else, in moments such as these.

He spots the familiar door, and pushes against it, finding it give away so lightly as to make him stumble. He catches himself and breathes a sigh of relief. The blurred outlines of strange devices swims into his vision. He closes his eyes against the blinding light, even brighter than the corridors before.

So brightly lit, and yet completely empty.

Cullen's legs give out, and he crashes to his knees.