Milo leaned on the railing, eyes scanning the broken streets below. Citizens ran in every direction. Others didn’t move at all. They just stood, eyes vacant, clutching glowing pamphlets like scripture. A few knelt in alleyways, clawing at the backs of their necks in fevered desperation.

“We’ve effectively caused a panic,” he murmured, almost amused, as if a prophecy was unfolding.

“Good,” she said.

Milo glanced at her, unreadable. “The last step?”

She didn’t answer right away. Fires flickered in the distance. She heard shouting.

“We dismantle the core,” she said. “Make those chips useless.”

He stilled. Then looked back toward the horizon, voice dry. “And here I thought today had been dramatic enough.”

“A lot of them are already tearing out their chips,” she said. “But Josen will retaliate. He’ll block access to removal equipment. I know it. Plus he’s already hunting us.”

Milo didn’t move. “That’ll cause collapse.”

“Yes, for those who rely on the chips to suppress their emotions, but they’ll have to learn to cope, to feel hunger again, to rebuild this society into something new.”

He looked at her—really looked at her. “And if they choose to go back?”

“They won’t,” she said. “Not all of them. They’ve seen what they were missing. And how fragile the system really was.”

Milo nodded once. Then he saw it. Aurora felt it a second later: the pulse. A tremor in the floor. The rhythmic boom of Titan boots coming in louder, closer.

“Milo…” she whispered.

But he was already moving, already reading exits, angles, and options in his head. “It was going too smoothly anyway,” he muttered, grabbing her hand. A second later—glass shattered. Titans breached the lower levels. Metal screams echoed up the stairwells. Aurora looked down. One of them had spotted them. Its head tilted back. Its lenses whirred, locking on her face.

“Shit.”

Milo didn’t wait. He pulled her toward the stairwell before the blast came. Boots slammed against steel. The entire building shook. The rooftop door blew open ahead of them from sheer wind pressure. They burst into the open—sky white with smoke, wind howling across the ledge.

“What now?” Aurora yelled.

Below, chaos raged. Titans stormed like machines possessed. Civilians scattered. The sky that was looping Matner’s images glitched, replaced by the night sky. Her breath came fast and shallow. This had been her plan. And it was falling apart.

Milo stepped to the ledge, raised his hand. “You forget,” he said, his voice calm and low. Lightning tore through the sky like a command obeyed. It struck a neighboring tower. The building shook, groaned, then gave way, collapsing in a controlled fall that slammed into the street with a thunderclap of ash and concrete. A smokescreen. Cover.

Before Aurora could react, Milo scooped her up.

“What about the artist? Matner?” she yelled, clinging to his coat as they ran.

“No time,” he hissed. She watched in horror as Milo’s building collapsed.

The storm followed them, lightning cracking overhead, scattering the Titans' sensors. Milo moved fast, cutting down alleys, diving into blind spots between surveillance zones. He knew the layout immensely. When they crossed, dodging Titans, and vanishing again.

Milo muttered a name under his breath. “Josen.”

Below them, the streets cracked open. Civilians wept in stairwells, huddled in storefronts. Some still clawed at their necks. Some ran toward the outer walls, confused, desperate for air, for autonomy, for anything that wasn’t this. And still, some stood still, like lost sheep. Eventually, they ducked beneath a collapsed bridge. The concrete formed a hollow pocket amid the rubble. They were far away from the main city, the chaos beyond.

Milo pulled her inside. His coat brushed her arm. She felt the shape of him beneath it. Not bulky. Just lean muscle and tension, built from movement, not vanity. He held her there, shielding her from the wind, the sirens, the ruin. Around them, the city howled, metal groaned, sparks flared in the distance, the world unraveling one fractured note at a time. But in the hollow beneath the wreckage, only breath moved. Only static pressed close. His coat was rough against her cheek. His arms, unyielding but not cruel, anchored her against the cold. She hadn’t meant to lean into him—not fully—but her muscles gave in, one by one. Strategy dulled by exhaustion. The lightshow seized, the stars flickering again. Fear dulled into silence. She let the weight settle. Let her body map itself to his.

Her breathing slowed, then steadied. “It was about time we faced some consequences for what we’ve been doing.” Milo didn’t say anything as she closed her eyes.

He didn’t move. For a long time, he simply watched the dark, eyes scanning nothing, mind still burning through calculations and ghosts.

Then, when her breath warmed the space between them, and the ruin outside seemed a little farther away.