The words feel like broken glass sliding out of my throat. 

Cold and jagged and unforgivable.

Zeal looks like he just bit into a battery.

Jet stares at me—expression unreadable.

Then:

"Huh."

Just that.

I brace for the fallout. 

For suspicion. 

For rejection. 

For the sudden shift in temperature that comes when people realize who I am—what I ran from.

But Jet just reaches for the tongs again, unfazed.

"Still think your wiring's cleaner than Zeal's."

Zeal scowls, wiping his mouth. "Blasphemy."

He doesn't say anything else right away. 

Just chews in silence, then swallows.

Then—

"Why'd you do it?"

I blink.

"Leak the files?"

He nods. 

Leans forward now, elbows on the table, chicken bone forgotten beside his plate.

"You could've stayed quiet. Lived like royalty. Let it rot behind walls. But you didn't." 

His voice isn't accusing. It's curious. Like he's trying to see past the fog.

I trace a circle on the table with my finger, eyes on the grease ring left by someone's drink.

"Because someone had to."

"That's not an answer."

I sigh.

"Because I found out what they were doing. To kids. To prisoners. To people who didn't have names. I overheard something I wasn't supposed to, and it kept growing. Like a virus in my brain."

Zeal leans back again, expression unreadable.

"So, you just bailed? Burned it all?"

"I leaked the files. Then I ran. Mujin makes people disappear. I didn't want to be next."

A pause.

Then he asks, softer this time:

"You leave anyone behind?"

The question hits harder than I expect. 

Right between the ribs.

"My stepbrother," 

I say, voice barely above a whisper. 

"Hyunjin."

His name still tastes like regret.

"We weren't close at the end. Not really. But... he didn't deserve to get left in that place."

Zeal watches me, slower now.

"Do you regret it?" he asks.

I meet his eyes. "Every day."

Jet doesn't speak right away. 

She just watches me for a second, like she's deciding something.

Then she turns back to the cabinet, muttering, 

"Well. Since we're already unboxing trauma—might as well make it a group therapy session."

She pulls out the half-empty bottle of Wanzu and slaps it onto the table like a peace treaty.

"Wanzu. On the house."

Zeal lets out a low whistle. "Damn. Now it's serious."

Jet grabs three chipped cups from the shelf and starts pouring. 

The liquor's a dull chrome color, thick and slow, like it's seen things.

Zeal swirls his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. 

Then he looks over at Jet. 

"You never talk about your past," 

he says, voice casual, but not mocking. 

"What's your story, oh fearless leader?"

Jet doesn't answer right away.

She stares into her drink, thumb tapping the rim like she's keeping time with something she doesn't want to say out loud.

Her voice doesn't crack. 

It stays flat — like she sanded down all the sharp edges a long time ago.

Different city. 

Different war. 

Same story.

Smart. 

Soft-spoken. 

Always trying to do the right thing, even when the ground was already collapsing under us.

And I had left him there.

Left him standing on the wreckage like it wouldn't swallow him too.

Jet's thumb taps the rim of her glass, dragging me back to the present.

"Then Pietra found us. Hauled us out of something bad."

Jet pauses — not for dramatic effect, but like the memory yanks at her ribs.

"She couldn't stay long. Heat was already on her back. So she dumped us with her mother."

Her mouth softens, just a little — a crack in the armor, so fast you might miss it.

"Nana."

She smiles — small, real, private — and still doesn't look up.

"Not our blood. Not even close. Just a stubborn old woman with a busted hip and a mean left hook. Took us in anyway. Fed us when she couldn't feed herself. Made up rules just so we'd have something to break and laugh about."

She nudges the glass a little farther away, like the words cost more than the drink ever could.

"She taught me how to cook without burning water. Taught Andrei how to stitch busted knuckles with fishing line. Smacked us when we mouthed off. Hugged us when we didn't know we needed it."

Her voice drops even lower — like she's talking to herself more than us now.

"She used to say we weren't broken — just bent a little out of shape. Like metal."

Jet's mouth quirks, almost a smile.

"Just had to heat it right. Hammer it straight."

The smirk fades as quickly as it came, leaving something raw and unpolished behind.

"We tried to believe her. Some days...it was hard to."

The quiet wraps around us — soft, heavy. 

Not uncomfortable. 

Just true.

She exhales slowly, pushing the memories back into their boxes.

"Andrei got picked on a lot. Soft voice. Always had his nose in a book. Couldn't lie to save his life."

Jet tips her head toward the ceiling, studying the cracked paint.

"So I learned to fight. First for him. Then for me."

Another shrug — sharper this time, as if to shake it off.

"People stopped messing with us after a while."

Her hand finds the glass again, slow and steady, and she taps it once against the table.

A beat.

"Then I started sneaking into tech-fights when I was ten," Jet says, her thumb dragging lazy circles around the rim of her glass. "Crawled through vents. Sat in rafters. Bet every stolen coin I had on the meanest bastard in the pit."

A dry chuckle slips out — thin, brittle — like the memory cuts more than it comforts.

"Kaji Mina was my hero. I used to watch her old matches on Tori Ichiban's busted CRT — static so bad you could barely tell who was winning. Half my size, twice the rage. Saw her flip a guy clean off his feet once."

Jet huffs a breath — half a laugh, half a sigh.

"Decided if I couldn't grow big... I'd grow mean."

Zeal lets out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair, eyebrows raised.

"You were betting at ten?"

Jet lifts her glass in a lazy salute, the smirk tugging at her mouth even as her eyes stay tired.

"Underage. Underfed. Undeterred."

The smirk lingers a second longer — then crumbles at the edges, like a mask slipping when no one's supposed to be looking.

"Got caught a few times," she says, twirling the glass between her fingers — a restless, practiced motion. "Andrei nearly busted a lung worrying over me. Figured if I couldn't stop getting in trouble... I had to get better at hiding it."

She tips the glass back, staring through it like it might show her a different past.

"Then Nana got sick. Real sick."

Her voice flattens, shaves down to something hard.

"Hospital bills don't care if you're a kid. Neither do landlords."

She sets the glass down with a soft clink, steadier than she feels.

"So I dropped out of high school. Took whatever jobs I could. Delivery runs. Assembly line. Hostess bar."

Jet meets Zeal's eyes, daring him to flinch.

"Sold my face too. Now I'm smiling down from every Wanzu ad in Teppen — and I can't even afford to look up at myself."

Zeal blinks. 

Just once — but there's something there. 

Not surprise. 

Recognition, maybe. 

Guilt? Whatever it is, it vanishes before Jet looks up.

"When I first saw that billboard," he says, quieter now, "I thought you finally made it out of Akagane."

Jet leans back, arms folding loose across her chest — a shield she doesn't even pretend to hide.

A crooked half-smirk tugs at her mouth.

"Please," she mutters. "Even if they'd paid me more than chump change, I wouldn't have left."

She taps the rim of her glass once — a dull, tired sound.

"Everything that matters to me is in this trash heap."

Jet's voice doesn't waver. Not even a little.

No one says anything for a moment.

Even the Wanzu goes still in our glasses.

Zeal watches her.

Not like he's shocked.

More like he's memorizing something that already hurts.

Then, with a crooked grin that almost looks forced:

"Hostess bar, huh?"

Jet tilts her head, deadpan.

"Jealous?"

He lets out a breath — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. 

"What? No. I mean... maybe a little."

His tone is light, but there's something under it. 

A tension in his jaw. 

A flicker of guilt he swallows down too quickly.

"Bet you looked terrifying throwing someone out in heels."

Jet snorts — loud, sudden, rough-edged.

"Only happened once. He cried. I kept the shoes."

Zeal laughs — sharp and real. 

But he doesn't look at her when he does. 

Just stares at the table like he's picturing something that already happened.

Jet laughs too — low and tired, but real — letting the weight of it roll off her shoulders, if only for a second.

She lifts her glass one more time, tapping it once against the table like sealing a deal.

She looks around the battered kitchen — the old walls, the cheap chairs, the heavy, stubborn warmth that still clings here despite everything.

"But this—" She taps the rim of her glass. 

"This feels like something real."

Zeal watches her.

Not with pity.

Not even with surprise.

With something quieter. Older. Like he's seen all this before.

She pours another shot and slides the bottle over.

Zeal catches it, swirling the Wanzu like it might show him something. 

"Well," he says, voice roughened by something he doesn't name, "guess it's my turn."

Jet leans forward, interested. "Let's hear it."

I sip my drink, feeling the burn settle low in my chest, and watch them from across the table.

And something about the way Zeal looks at her — something careful, something worn down — needles at the edge of my mind.

Something tells me he knew more than he let on.

Maybe long before tonight.

"My dad was Hei Lóng," Zeal says, voice low but steady. "Old-school. They called him the White Viper — the kind of name you didn't say out loud unless you had a death wish."

He pauses, the kitchen light carving deep shadows under his eyes.

"He went to prison when I was four. Took the fall for someone higher up. Never came home. Only time he left was in a box."

A dry laugh escapes him — too thin to be real.

"After that... my mom was never the same."

He shrugs, but it's hollow — more habit than release.

"I got tagged early," he says. "Triad brat. Gutter trash. Took my first beating before I could spell half the words they called me."

He shifts, like the weight of it still sits wrong under his skin.

"Couldn't fight back much. Bad lungs. Smog tore me up young. Missed half the year in bed, sick. The other half getting kicked around."

His gaze flicks sideways — not casual, but sharp, tethered — and lands on Jet.

"But then you showed up."

Jet blinks, caught mid-pour, like she forgot she was supposed to be tough.

"Grease-stained, furious, bad haircut, about four feet tall—like a feral raccoon" Zeal says, a crooked grin breaking through. "You curb-stomped a senior for calling me gutter trash."

Jet snorts. "Sounds like me."

"And then," Zeal adds, mock-offended, "you tried to charge me for the service."

Jet actually laughs — low, surprised — and the sound kicks something warm under my ribs.

"That was you?" she says.

Zeal leans back, tipping his chair onto two legs, all false nonchalance.

"Yeah. I tried to thank you. Tripped over my own shoelaces and broke my glasses instead. Still have the frames in a box somewhere. Thought about fixing 'em once. Didn't."

Jet smirks, lazy and fond. "You still haven't paid up, you know."

Zeal taps his chest, solemn. "Interest's gonna kill me before the smog does."

But then Zeal's grin fades, and he hooks his arms behind his head, looking up at the ceiling like maybe it'll answer for all the things he can't.

"We don't get out clean," he says, voice quieter now. 

"Not from where we came from."

His eyes meet Jet's across the battered table.

"But sometimes... we get out anyway."

Jet holds his gaze for a beat. Then lifts her glass.

"To getting out."

Zeal taps his against hers — not hard, but easy, like muscle memory, like they've done this a hundred times in a hundred bad kitchens. "To surviving anyway."

I hesitate—then raise mine, slower. "To not becoming what they tried to make us."

For a second, the room stills. 

Everything was quiet. 

No buzz, no clatter. 

Just the three of us, and the ugly, stubborn weight of staying alive. 

We drink.

The Wanzu burns going down, sharp and clean, like cauterizing an old wound.

Zeal coughs once, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and flashes me a lopsided grin. 

"Gotta say—for an ex-Mujin royal, you've got serious grit."

"I've had practice," I say.

He nods—slower now. 

Some of the light drains from his face, replaced with something heavier. 

Not suspicion. 

Recognition. 

"You still running?" he asks, voice quieter at the edges.

I think about it—about the wreckage in my chest, about the way the door doesnt pull at me like it used to. 

I shake my head. 

"Not tonight."

Zeal watches me a moment longer than he needs to—then tips his glass in a lazy salute. 

Like he's making a decision. 

Like he's letting me stay. 

Jet nods once. "Good."

She picks up the bottle, pours another round without asking.

"Because if you're gonna bleed with us—" 

She pushes the shot glass toward me,

"—you might as well drink with us too."