Brooklyn didn't sleep anymore.

Jahil Roze leaned against a half-frozen scaffolding pipe, watching neon glyphs flicker above a shattered plaza.
Snow crunched quietly as civilians hurried past — keeping their heads down, pretending the city wasn't falling apart under them.

He didn’t blame them.
That’s what survivors did. Pretend. Move. Forget.

The pulse hit him again.
A chill ripple across his relic core — faint, but growing.

An unauthorized surge. Nearby.

Jahil’s fingers tightened around the worn grip of his cryo blade.

Across the plaza, a figure sprinted into view.
Small. Quick. Darting between abandoned vendor stalls like a spooked alley cat.

Chasing her — three operatives in black glyphgear.

The girl nearly slipped on the ice but caught herself, clutching something tight against her chest.
Not a purse. Not supplies.
Something heavier. Something that hummed across the relic spectrum.

Jahil’s breath misted.
The choice wasn’t a choice at all.

He moved.

The first operative never saw the blow coming.
Jahil shoulder-checked him into a glyph pole — the crack of impact sharp enough to turn heads.

The second raised his weapon — glyph charges already sparking.
Too slow.

Jahil closed the distance and struck low, snapping the man's stance with a brutal sweep kick.

The third hesitated.
Smart.
Ran.
Smarter.

Jahil didn’t chase.

Instead, he turned — slowly — to the girl staring at him like he'd just punched a hole through reality.

Up close, she was younger than he expected.
Maybe twenty? Maybe less.
Sharp teal eyes.
Hair a tangle of blue-black curls spilling from under a battered hood.
Boots scuffed. Jacket torn at the sleeve.

And somehow — somehow — she carried herself like royalty slumming it for the drama.

"You're welcome," Jahil said flatly.

The girl blinked.

"I didn’t — ask —"

She faltered mid-snark, doubling over with a cough.

Jahil caught her by the elbow before she faceplanted into the slush.

"You're injured," he said.

"No," she wheezed. "I'm just... aggressively resting."

He stared.

She groaned.

"Okay, fine. Little bit injured."

(Beat.)

"Maybe... a lot."

Jahil sighed.

Brooklyn really hadn’t changed that much after all.

"Come on," he muttered.

He half-dragged, half-supported her into the shadow of a crumbling archway.
Farther from the patrol routes. Safer.

She slumped against the wall, breathing heavily.
Then, slowly, grinning like a cat that’d just survived a hurricane.

"So," she said between gasps.
"You gonna turn me in or what?"

Jahil didn’t answer.

Because despite everything — despite his instincts, despite the rules beaten into his blood — the pulse from her jacket throbbed again.

Cryo-blue. Spiral-etched.

A relic core.

Unbonded. Unregistered. Dangerous.

And somehow — syncing to him.

Velira (grinning wider):

"What's the matter, Mr. Hero? Relic got your tongue?"

And somewhere inside the frost of his chest, Jahil Roze felt something stir.

Something he thought had frozen over a long time ago. long time ago.