The door nearly exploded off its hinges.

Neon slammed into it at full speed—
wood split with a sharp, violent crack, shards flying like brittle rain across the dim interior. The hinges groaned in protest, metal grinding like the cry of a wounded beast. His boots slipped the moment they hit the cold stone—
thud.
He collapsed forward, body sliding through a smear of blood and rainwater, limbs loose with exhaustion.

Behind him, the sound of metal—

clackclackclack—

S.A.B.R.E. scrambled in after him, its spindly limbs ticking a frantic rhythm across the stone. The spider-bot's sensors glowed dim blue in the candlelight, its chassis dripping wet, servos buzzing with anxious energy.

The scent hit him next.

Not fire. Not ash. But oil—thick and warm. Herbs hung from the rafters in neat bundles: rosemary, sage, starwort, thyme. Somewhere beneath it all, a lingering sweetness—lavender crushed beneath calloused fingers.
This place smelled like home.
Or the closest thing that hadn't burned.

---

"Lad?!"

The voice hit like a hammer.
Broad. Deep. Drenched in Highland grit.

"Ye're alive?!"

Calder.

From the shadows by the window, the old alchemist stepped into view, arms straining as he shoved a thick iron bar into place across the frame. Rain pelted the glass. Firelight flickered on the warped panes. He turned—

Dust streaked his clothes. Grease painted his cheeks like warpaint.
But those eyes—sharp, keen, grey as cut stone—
They saw everything.

They landed on Neon.
And they widened.

"Och, by the sigils…"

Neon didn't speak.
Couldn't.

His knees hit the floor. Hard. The pain barely registered.

---

He knelt—
soaked, trembling, blood mixing with soot as it slid down his face. His body shook like something half-shattered. Water dripped from his hair in slow, deliberate drops, tapping against the floor like a second ticking clock. Candlelight flickered across his pale features, casting long shadows beneath eyes that had seen too much.

"They're…"
His voice cracked.
"…everywhere."

His breath came in shallow gasps.
Rain. Smoke. Screams. The crash of falling stone. The crunch of steel through armor.

It echoed in his chest.

Calder moved—fast, deliberate. No hesitation.

Boots slammed the stone floor with heavy thuds as he crossed the space in three strides. His hands—wide, worn, steady as anvils—gripped Neon by the arms.

Calloused fingers met skin that burned with cold.

"Breathe, boy," he muttered, voice rough but quiet. "Just breathe."

Neon blinked, slow and unfocused.
His breath stuttered. His muscles refused to listen.

But Calder held firm.

He hauled the boy up—not with violence, but with the practiced strength of someone who'd lifted wounded soldiers from battlefield rubble and carried broken machines home to repair them by hand.

He turned and locked the door.

CLACK.

---

The sound echoed through the workshop like a warding spell. Like the world outside had been shut out… for now.

"Yer safe," Calder said, low and firm. "Ye hear me?"

"Safe. Here. With me."

Neon swayed in his grip.

The word safe felt unreal. Distant.
Like something from another lifetime.

But Calder didn't let go.

The room buzzed faintly—S.A.B.R.E. clicking softly nearby, scanning the shadows. Rain beat against the windows, wind howling like a wounded beast. Somewhere far off, another structure fell—dull, distant thunder.

"For now," Calder repeated, quieter.

And the way he said it—
soft and worn—
it sounded like a prayer.

A fragile thing, pressed between flame and fear.
But Neon clung to it anyway.

He let himself sag forward into the old man's arms, tears lost to the blood and water already on his cheeks.

Just for a moment.

He was home.