Flames.

  That’s the first thing I remember.

  Flames licking up the side of the east tower. Screams in the distance. The smell of metal, smoke, and betrayal.

  I’m running.

  The walls are gone. Eden is burning. Bodies line the streets, faces I almost recognize but can’t bring myself to remember. My left arm is gone—torn off, maybe. I don’t remember how it happened. The pain isn’t real anymore. Not in dreams.

  Marisol is ahead of me, limping. One hand clutching a bloody bandage on her hip, the other gripping a pistol that’s empty but still shaking with fury. Her coat is half-burned off. Her eyes are wild.

  Behind her, I hear another voice. Deep, coarse.

  "You know I told you that bastard couldn’t be trusted!" Ferris roars, shoving open a back gate that leads to the alley. Ferris. That was his name. Rough as sandpaper, built like a riot shield, and too loyal for his own good.

  He looks like Mark. A bit broader. Jaw heavier. But the same fire in his voice when he’s angry. Same protective bark.

  Marisol shouts over her shoulder, "We don’t have time, Ferris! Move!"

  "Screw that! I’m going to skin that fucker alive if I see him again."

  The gate slams behind us.

  Mark is last.

  He covers our rear, firing short bursts from an old rifle. His face is drawn tight with exhaustion. We’re all bleeding, dragging ourselves through smoke and death, chased by a nightmare we didn’t see coming.

  We should’ve known. We should’ve seen it.

  We put our trust in a leader who smiled too easily.

  "Fucking Zionites," I hiss, ducking behind a collapsed kiosk. "Goddamn vultures."

  The Zionites. That’s what they called themselves. A splinter faction from the west side of the city—named after some lost promise of peace. Violent, well-armed, and drunk on prophecy. Their banners flew as Eden's walls fell. Red cloth painted with silver suns. A utopia built on bones.

  They didn’t just attack.

  They were invited in.

  "He sold us out!" Ferris screams as we sprint across the old garden plaza, now blackened and slick with blood. "He fucking sold us!"

  A bullet hits the fountain beside me. Shards of stone cut across my face. I stagger, catch myself, keep moving.

  We’re almost out.

  Almost.

  "Rex!" Mark shouts. "Go left! Through the side gate!"

  I turn.

  And then I hear it.

  The sound is sickeningly soft. Just a wet crack.

  I stop.

  Mark doesn’t.

  He drops.

  No cry. No drama. Just a marionette with cut strings. His legs crumple under him. The rifle clatters to the pavement.

  I freeze. I can't even scream. There's nothing left to scream.

  Marisol turns too late.

  "Mark?!"

  She moves toward him. I grab her. Drag her back.

  "He's gone!"

  "No, no—"

  "He's gone! We move!"

  Ferris is silent now. Just gritting his teeth so hard I think his jaw might break.

  We run.

  No more shouting. No more backtalk. Just footfalls and breath and fire.

  The pharmacy on the outskirts still stands. Barely. Half the windows are shattered, but the door holds. The shelves are mostly picked clean, but there’s just enough space to collapse.

  Marisol sinks against the counter, eyes distant. Ferris paces like a caged animal, fists clenched, shoulders trembling.

  I drop to my knees near a shattered aisle. My stump throbs like it remembers pain.

  No one speaks.

  No one mourns out loud.

  We’ve seen this too many times.

  And I know this one is just another dream. Another scarred memory dressed in ash and fire.

  But I still feel it.

  Every time.

  I wake up gasping.

  Sweat clings to my skin. My chest is heaving. The sheets are tangled around my legs, the pillow damp. My face is wet.

  I wipe the tears before I realize I’m crying.

  Wren stirs beside me. "Was it that bad?" she asks, her voice groggy but light, trying to make it a joke. Trying to make it easier.

  I sit up slowly. "Just a nightmare," I mutter. "They’re frequent. Don’t worry about it."

  She shifts slightly, sitting up against the headboard. She’s naked, but the blanket wrapped around her shoulders makes her look smaller. Softer.

  I get up. Walk to the bathroom without another word.

  The cold water helps. The shower washes off the sweat but not the memory. Not the image of Mark hitting the ground. Not the sound of betrayal echoing between burning walls.

  When I’m clean and dressed, I rummage through the small kitchen and throw something together. Bread that hasn’t gone moldy. A couple eggs. Half a tin of beans.

  I plate it. Leave it on the table.

  "Food’s there if you want it," I say without looking back.

  Wren’s still in the bed, watching. Curious. Like she’s trying to understand something about me she knows I won’t explain.

  She doesn’t say it, but I see it in her eyes: He’s a softie under all that.

  She’s smart enough not to say it out loud.

  I lace my boots and grab my coat.

  When I open the door, Mark is standing just outside, mid-sentence.

  “Wren, have you seen—”

  He stops.

  His eyes flick from me to the room behind me—Wren, sitting up in bed, the blanket wrapped around her like a lazy toga, hair a mess, clearly just waking.

  Mark blinks.

  Then he squints.

  Then a slow grin spreads across his face.

  “…Seriously?”

  I grunt and step past him, pulling the door shut behind me.

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m not starting anything,” he says, hands raised. But he’s already fighting laughter.

  “I was coming to ask Wren if she saw you since we forgot to show you where you could stay,” he snorts. “Guess you figured it out.”

  He chuckles, then starts laughing harder than he probably should. Real belly laughter. Like he needed it.

  “You’re an idiot,” I mutter, walking past him.

  Mark follows, still grinning. “You’re the one crawling out of Wren’s bed and calling me the idiot?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m just saying—she’s like, top three in Eden’s unofficial no-go list.”

  “I said shut up.”

  He grins, but lets it go. We walk side by side, boots crunching against loose gravel.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Anyway,” he says after a second, “Luna’s looking for you. Said it was important.”

  I nod.

  Then he glances sideways at me and frowns.

  “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nightmare?”

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn't press. Just nods, walking in silence for a moment.

  I light a cigarette and breathe in deep. The smoke steadies me. Grounds me.

  I offer one to Mark without thinking.

  He gives me a look and waves it off. “Nah. Y’know I don’t like it.”

  Of course not.

  I exhale and glance sideways at him. “You said Luna was looking for me?”

  “Yeah.” He sobers a little. “She’s up. Wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Alright.”

  We walk in silence for a few seconds more.

  He doesn’t say anything else.

  He never does.

  And that’s why I like him.

  ________

  The clinic smells like antiseptic and herbs—clean, but not comforting.

  Luna’s sitting up in bed when we walk in, propped against a pillow, her left arm still bound in a sling. She looks better—more herself. Hair tied back, posture squared, clipboard resting on her lap like she’s already halfway back to commanding.

  She glances up when the door opens.

  “Took you long enough,” she mutters.

  Mark smirks. “Cut him some slack. He’s had a long morning.”

  I grunt but don’t reply. I step inside and take the chair beside her bed without asking. Luna watches the motion, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

  Her eyes shift to Mark briefly, then back to me. She doesn’t say anything about it, but I see the way her gaze lingers. She notices things. Like how we’re standing a bit closer than strangers would. Like how I didn’t snap at him like usual.

  But she doesn’t ask.

  Smart woman.

  “You’re looking better,” I say.

  Luna lifts an eyebrow. “Is that concern?”

  “No.”

  “Shame. I was hoping we’d gotten close enough to share feelings.”

  Mark chuckles, and I almost smirk.

  Almost.

  She sets the clipboard aside. “You already know about the mission.”

  I nod. “You mentioned it. Precinct run.”

  “Right,” she says. “Old police station, east end. Big stone one near the elevated tracks.”

  “Zionite territory.”

  “Technically neutral, but yeah. Close enough to draw attention.”

  I stay quiet, so she keeps talking.

  “We’re hoping the armory’s still intact. Best case? Guns, sealed ammo, maybe body armor. Worst case? Scrap and dust. Either way, it’s worth checking.”

  I exhale through my nose. “You’re leading it?”

  She nods. “Still a bit stiff, but I can move. Just need someone to cover the angles I can’t hit fast enough.”

  “No,” I say, almost on instinct.

  Mark glances over but doesn’t say anything.

  Luna tilts her head. “That was fast.”

  “I’m not Eden’s problem solver.”

  “You’re not Eden’s anything,” she says. “But you’re here. And you want a rifle.”

  I don’t respond.

  She leans forward slightly, the movement controlled but not easy. “This is how you get it. Come with us, watch our backs, grab the cleanest piece of steel you find in the lockers.”

  “I don’t play nice in groups.”

  “You did just fine last week.”

  “That was different.”

  “Was it?”

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  Mark finally steps in. “I’ll be going too. So will Wren, Ferris, and two scouts. Small and fast.”

  “You’ll be outnumbered.”

  Luna nods. “That’s why we’re not getting caught.”

  I glance at the map on her tray, folded and marked with red circles and crosshairs.

  “Whose plan?”

  “Halcyon’s.”

  My eyes narrow.

  “The leader?”

  She nods once. “That’s what he goes by now.”

  Halcyon.

  The name feels too neat. Too clean. Something out of a parable or propaganda reel. I’ve heard names like that before—used by men who talk like prophets and lead like tyrants.

  I don’t like it.

  Luna catches the twitch in my brow but doesn’t comment.

  “He laid out the route. Entry point. Caches. Escape routes. Ferris reviewed it. It’s solid.”

  “Ferris?” I echo.

  “Tall, broad, shaves his head. Carries a sledgehammer like it’s a paperweight. Doesn’t smile much unless he’s about to break something.”

  I grunt. “Looks like Mark’s grumpier older brother.”

  Mark snorts. “He gets that a lot.”

  “You’ll talk to him later,” Luna adds. “He’s giving the final brief.”

  I nod slowly.

  “You know him already or something?” Mark asks.

  I pause. “Saw him in a dream.”

  Luna tilts her head. “A dream?”

  “Like a vision?” Mark asks.

  “Forget it,” I say, waving it off. “Doesn’t matter.”

  They exchange a look but let it go.

  Luna continues. “You want that rifle. You want to stay on your own. I get it. But if you want to keep surviving, this is the trade.”

  Mark nods. “You won’t find anything better than this run. If the Zionites get there first, we’re screwed.”

  I stare at the both of them. Luna, proud and calculating even from a hospital bed. Mark, steady and watchful. And I hate that they make sense.

  “Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll go.”

  Luna nods. No triumph. Just understanding.

  “One mission,” I add. “That’s all.”

  “Wouldn’t ask for more,” she says.

  As I stand, Mark gives me a look.

  “I knew you would say yes,” he says.

  I raise an eyebrow. “That a problem?”

  He shrugs, smiling. “No. Just makes it easier to trust you.”

  __________

  As we step out of the clinic, the sun’s lower in the sky than I realized. Pale light bleeds through the clouds, washing the square in muted gold. Wind whistles between scaffolds and makeshift guard rails. Somewhere nearby, someone’s hammering sheet metal into place.

  Mark walks ahead, giving me space.

  I don’t follow.

  Not yet.

  I light a cigarette and lean against the wall, tucking one hand into my coat. The smoke curls up into the gray above Eden—vanishing fast. Like everything else.

  The square is quieter now. Less rush. Less panic. Just people moving in tired, practiced patterns. A kid runs by with a scrap of cloth tied like a cape. A woman chases him, laughing breathlessly. A guard leans on his spear near the edge of the wall, yawning like he hasn’t slept.

  Life pretending to be normal.

  I stay in the shadow beside the clinic and watch it all, letting the smoke sit in my lungs a little longer than I should.

  And I hate it.

  Not the peace. Not the people. Me.

  I hate that I’m still here.

  I’ve seen this place in flames. I’ve watched it fall more times than I can count. I’ve let it burn because I was tired. Because I was numb. Because somewhere along the way, I started thinking maybe I deserved to see it all end.

  I remember exactly who I was before all this.

  That’s the worst part.

  I remember everything.

  Every word. Every scream. Every time I failed. Every time I gave up just a little more.

  I exhale, slow and bitter. The smoke doesn’t sting anymore. Nothing really does.

  I glance down at my hand—scarred knuckles, callused grip. I flex it once. The cigarette ash crumbles and drifts to the ground.

  Ferris.

  I don’t know him in this life, but I’ve seen him. Heard him scream in fury. Watched him carry two people through fire while bleeding from the gut. He’s loyal. Brutal. And he dies hard.

  Wren will be there too. Probably with that same smirk she always has right before a fight. Mark… he’ll keep making that same mistake. Charging in because someone has to.

  And me?

  I’m the bastard who keeps crawling out of the wreckage just in time to watch it all fall again.

  I toss the cigarette, crush it under my boot, and head toward the north side. Time to get briefed.

  Time to pretend I haven’t already seen how this ends.

  _______

  The briefing room isn’t a room at all. Just a cleared-out supply shed with a table pushed to the center, a few battered crates for seats, and a map pinned to the back wall with knives.

  Wren’s already there when I walk in, leaning against the table, arms crossed. She looks up when I enter.

  No smirk. Just a soft, knowing smile.

  I nod once.

  She doesn’t say anything, but the air’s different between us. No tension. No expectations. Just something wordless and settled. She tilts her head slightly—acknowledging it, whatever it was. I get the sense she didn’t expect breakfast. That might’ve done more than anything else.

  Before I can say anything, the door swings open behind me.

  And in storms Ferris.

  Loud. Heavy-footed. Voice like gravel with no volume control.

  He stops just inside the doorway when he sees me.

  “Pretty boy,” he says, voice rough and mockingly thoughtful. “Scar along the cheek and eyes that look like you’ve had it worse than God Himself—gotta be Rex.”

  I give him a once-over. “Shaved head, voice like a crowbar scraping cement, and a resting face that screams divorce twice over—you must be Ferris.”

  He smiles but looks annoyed.

  Wren snorts. One of the scouts coughs to cover a laugh.

  Ferris steps forward. I see the tension tighten in his jaw.

  “Didn’t know we were bringing in strays,” he mutters.

  “Didn’t know barking counted as leadership,” I reply.

  He closes the distance a little more. Wren shifts slightly but doesn’t intervene.

  “Luna said you were coming,” Ferris growls. “Didn’t realize she meant I’d be babysitting.”

  That grates.

  Not because of the insult. But because Luna told him before I agreed.

  Of course she did.

  Of course she knew.

  I bite down the annoyance and meet his stare without blinking.

  “I don’t need babysitting. Just tell me what I need to know.”

  He scoffs and turns toward the map. “We’re moving fast. East perimeter. Five clicks through open ground until we hit the service alley behind the precinct. No rooftops. No fire lanes. We keep low.”

  Two others are already at the table—lean, armed, eyes sharp. They’ve got the look of people who’ve survived more than one bad day. They’re not part of the banter.

  Good.

  One of them—a short woman with a half-mask pulled down to her chin—leans forward and taps the map. “We’ve marked three known Zionite sentry points. If we leave just before dawn, their shift swap leaves a gap. That’s our window.”

  The other scout—a tall, wiry guy with a slung rifle and clean fingerless gloves—adds, “Precinct’s eastern loading dock is welded shut. But the ventilation shaft up top is climbable. We’ll need a rope anchor. I’ll handle it.”

  Ferris grunts. “Yeah. That’s why you’re here. You two focus on recon and getting us in. Wren, you cover the high ground. Mark and I handle front and fallback. Rex—”

  He pauses. Like he doesn’t want to finish the sentence.

  “—you’re Luna’s call. Don’t get in my way.”

  I nod once, sharp and cold. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  He turns back to the map, jabbing a thick finger at the back alley. “We breach through here. No firefights unless absolutely necessary. We grab what we can. Prioritize clean ammo, carbines, medkits. Anything that can be carried fast.”

  The two scouts nod.

  Wren finally speaks. “What’s the fallback if the Zionites show up while we’re inside?”

  Ferris answers, but the tone is tighter. “Same as always. North exit. We move as a unit. No heroes.”

  He says it like he’s daring someone to break the rule.

  I already know I will.

  Ferris folds the map and tosses it into a worn pack. “That’s it. We leave in seven days. I want everyone prepped and checked in the night before.”

  He looks around the room like it owes him something.

  Then walks out without another word.

  Wren exhales, gives me a sidelong glance. “You two are gonna get along great.”

  I don’t answer.

  But she’s not wrong.