The sheets smell like something old and clean. 

Like asphalt after a heavy rain. 

There's a humming fan above me, blades whispering lullabies to the cracked ceiling.

My neck aches. My skin burns.

But I'm alive.

My first inhale stings the lungs like I've been underwater too long. 

The second comes easier. The third—

Bandaged fingers. Filtered light.

Where..?

I blink slow. 

Try to sit up—and regret it immediately. 

My head's full of sand, the kind that clogs thoughts and memories and leaves only static behind.

Then I see the name etched faintly into the desk drawer across the room. 

A. BOSCONOVITCH.

This was his room.

I breathe in again. 

This time, it stays. 

Something warm settles in my chest. 

Not safety. Not yet.

But something close.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed. 

Every joint protests. 

My neck pulses—chip still hot, but no longer screaming.

Downstairs is quieter than I expect. 

Just the muted clatter of pans, voices low and overlapping. 

I hover by the stairs, clutching the rail with white knuckles. Listening.

Zeal's hunched over the table, voice low and dry. "So now she's your mechanic?"

Jet doesn't even glance up. "You're my fallback."

He snorts, deep and guttural. "Fallback? I hand-built those AirStreamers after you crashed into a loading dock, and this is how you repay me?"

Jet flips a wing, unbothered. "And they're still too slow."

Zeal leans back, one brow raised. 

"That's intentional. It's dramatic. A stylistic choice." He gestures with his chicken bone. 

"And now I've been replaced. Just like that. By someone who passed out near a dumpster."

My ears perk up.

Jet shrugs. "She stiffed the bill. That ramen psycho nearly clocked her with a ladle."

"Huh." He wipes a hand on his pants. "Didn't seem the type." 

Jet scoffs. 

"She went full ragdoll, right there. Deadweight. Like she saw a ghost."

Zeal sets his food down, the mood shifting.

"And you brought her here?" His voice drops an octave. "Jet, that wasn't scrap she was using. Nano-steel. That's vault-level tech. You even know who hoards that stuff?"

"Mujin."

"Exactly." He leans forward now, all humor gone. "You don't pick that up at a street stall."

"Yeah? Maybe she bought it. Not like the black market checks receipts."

Zeal narrows his eyes. "Or maybe she's carrying more than broken tech."

I flinch — but Jet doesn't.

Her voice stays cool, steady — but there's steel threaded through it now, sharp enough to cut.

"She didn't land here by mistake. Don't go playing gutter-cop with someone who's already bleeding."

A beat.

Zeal leans back, sets his chicken down like it suddenly tastes wrong.

"Not playing anything," he says, low--voice like gravel. "I don't hand out beds to strangers with prototype-grade hardware bolted into their nervous system."

Jet's head lifts — slow, deliberate — eyes narrowed.

"Better that," she says, evenly, "than being too scared to open the damn door."

Zeal's mouth twitches — like he's about to say something that would hit too deep.

But he doesn't.

Just leans back, jaw tight, and mutters:

"Hope you're right about her."

The words hang there, heavy and slick, like oil pooling on tile.

I step forward. The stair creaks.

"Don't blame him," I say, voice hoarse from disuse. "He's not wrong."

Both of them look up—Jet from the stove, Zeal mid-chew, brows lifting like I've thrown a wrench at him.

I force the rest out. "You're right to be suspicious. Nano-steel doesn't just wash up in alley junk."

Zeal leans back in his chair, folding his arms. 

Deep. 

Unreadable. 

"Then tell me where you pulled it from."

"From people who don't ask questions." 

I pause. "And don't answer them either."

Jet raises a brow, but says nothing. 

She just watches. 

Waiting.

"If I wanted trouble," 

I murmur, 

"I wouldn't have run this far."

Zeal scoffs under his breath. 

"Like we're gonna believe that."

Jet cuts in, still not looking at him. 

"She's here now. And we don't kick people out just 'cause their past makes us uncomfortable."

I hesitate. Then:

"I can go."

Jet turns to me—eyes sharp, but not unkind.

"You can," she says. 

"But you don't have to."

Another beat.

Then she tosses me a rag and nods toward the table. "Sit. You look like you need to eat."

I catch the rag on reflex.

Zeal grumbles, tearing into chicken. "So she gets food and absolution?"

Jet smirks. "Shut up and eat, second-string mechanic."

"You wound me."

Jet sets the tongs down with a clink. 

Wipes her hands on a rag. 

Turns toward me fully now.

No smirk.

No fire.

Just that sharp, evaluating stillness I'm starting to recognize as the real her.

"You know your way around tech most pit-scrappers wouldn't dare touch," she says. "We need that kind of precision. That kind of expertise."

Zeal mocks. "Can't believe I got demoted during dinner." 

Jet doesn't even glance at him. "We need someone who can tune rigs mid-round. Someone with steady hands. Someone who doesn't freeze when the pressure spikes."

I blink. "You want me on your crew?"

"Yeah," she says simply. "To be honest, I don't know shit about fixing rigs. I just know when they break. If Zeal caps out, I'm screwed."  

She meets my eyes.

"This isn't a charity, it's a fair trade—he gets to focus on smashing faces, and you keep the rigs from falling apart mid-match. You'd be in the pit. Full cut."

It stings, how much I want to say yes. How much I want something solid after months of running on air and lies.

But I stand anyway.

"I can't."

Zeal raises an eyebrow. 

Jet frowns.

"Why?" she asks. 

"Too good for us?"

"No," I say. And mean it.

Jet crosses her arms. 

"We've got space. You can stay in Andrei's old room. No one'll look for you here, not in Akagane. We've hidden worse."

"Jet—"

"You can fix your rig. Lay low. Rest. Fight, if you want. Or don't. No pressure."

"I said I can't."

It comes out sharper than I intended. 

The silence it leaves in its wake is colder this time.

I don't owe them anything. But something about the way they're both looking at me—like I'm not just some ticking bomb—makes me want to give them something real.

Even if it hurts.

I take a breath. 

It feels like gravel.

"You were right," I say. 

"You shouldn't trust me."

Jet doesn't move. 

Zeal shifts, just slightly.

I keep going. 

Quiet. 

Controlled.

"I'm not just some drifter with good wiring." 

My voice drops lower. 

"I defected from Mujin."

Zeal stiffens. "...Go on." 

"I ran five months ago. Burned my ID. Changed my name. Erased what I could."

Jet's brows knit. 

But she waits.

"That freighter that blew up in Rokunan?" 

I say. 

"It was carrying something—files I leaked. They were meant to expose the labs. The tech. The experiments Mujin buried."

Another pause.

And then, because there's no point hiding it now: