The abandoned checkpoint was colder than the ruins they'd escaped.
Broken rails cut across the ground like scars.
Old transit terminals stood hollow, stripped of glyph tech and hope.
Snow seeped through shattered skylights, coating everything in a muted frost.
Jahil Roze sat near a broken crate, one gauntlet resting beside his shield.
His breath was steady, but his eyes never stopped moving.
Velira Velethorne stood halfway across the platform, pretending she wasn’t watching him watch her.
"You didn't ask why they were chasing me," she said finally.
"I figured you'd tell me when it mattered," Jahil answered.
"You trust me that much?"
"No."
A pause.
"Then why save me?"
"Didn't think about it. Just moved."
Velira scoffed.
"Do you ever answer anything like a normal person?"
"Not anymore."
She shifted, leaning against a splintered support beam.
"The relic—it's not mine. Not really."
He waited.
"I was supposed to bring it back. Lock it away. My house... they wanted to bury it. Again."
"And instead?"
"I ran."
"Why?"
Velira's expression twitched. Then settled.
"My father doesn't like power he can't control."
"What house?"
She hesitated.
"What relic class?"
No answer.
"Who sent the hunters?"
Still silence.
"You want protection, but not truth. That's a dangerous contract."
Velira folded her arms, jaw tight.
"And what are you, then?"
He didn't speak.
"You don't move like a brawler. Or a caster. That stance—that discipline—that's Tank training, isn't it?"
"You were one. A real one. The kind that doesn't flinch. Doesn't fall."
A breeze whistled through the collapsed window. Dust shifted.
And something behind Jahil’s expression cracked just enough.
[Flash Memory]
A high ridge. Blinding snow. Alarm glyphs screeching in the distance.
Rheza stood at the front of their squad—short, sharp-angled frame wrapped in a full-temp cloak, frost blooming on her lips.
Her silver hair, streaked with violet, whipped in the storm winds.
Her eyes burned alive with the thrill of the storm.
"You think you're invincible, Roze?" she teased, half-laugh, half-battle cry.
"You're just stubborn ice on borrowed time."
"Good," he answered. "I'll outlast the fire."
Then a pulse.
Her scream.
And the cold took everything.
[End Memory]
Jahil blinked. Velira hadn't moved.
"I don't want to die as someone's pawn," she said softly.
"I want to be someone who makes her own calls."
Then she caught herself.
"Tch. Not that I need you to understand. You're just... big and frosty and convenient."
"You're still running."
"Am not."
He stared.
"...Am not," she muttered again.
[Scene Shift]
Location: Sector 3 Ghostblock – Lower Brooklyn Fringe
Varron Kline stood at the center of a glowing glyph circle.
Half his jaw plated in synthbone. His arms sleeved in exposed muscle-thread and glimmering metal.
Cold black eyes. A neck implant pulsed when he spoke, glyphs threading across his collar like veins.
A mercenary lay twitching on the floor—frozen-nerved, glyph-burned, half rebuilt.
The black-clad assistant beside him wore no rank.
Her left eye replaced with a glowing lens.
"Your squad failed," she reported.
"Eight men. One survivor."
Varron's synth fingers clicked once.
"Whoever did this wasn't some grunt."
"No ID. Glyph residue and field-scorch only."
"Run every signature from that cathedral," Varron said, voice low. "We'll find him."
"The relic?"
"Still in play."
He leaned in.
"Tell the Administrator..."
(Beat.)
"Order is never lost. Only deferred."
[Scene Shift Back]
Velira sat on a cracked bench, hugging her coat.
Jahil stood nearby, framed in falling snow and fading light.
"You're welcome to walk away," he said.
She glanced up.
"...This place still sucks," she muttered.
But she didn’t move.
He didn’t either.
Comments (0)
See all