The comm buzzed.
Cheap, cracked screen lit up like a curse, flickering against the rot-stained wall like a dying neon sign begging to be put out of its misery. The room's shadows twisted with the sickly glow.
Deadsmoke.
Nolan froze. Time didn't. The world outside was still screaming. Sirens sang like banshees, synths pulsed like a heartbeat on life support, and someone—somewhere—was always dying too loud.
Velrian never slept. It just decayed slower at night.
His breath caught in his throat. Fingers twitching. His brain hadn't caught up yet, but his body remembered the pain. The last time Deadsmoke called, they'd almost lost a leg. The time before that, a friend. Now… it might be something worse.
His heartbeat turned into a metronome of dread.
Alya stepped in like thunder on bare ground. Her ponytail was tight, face tighter. She wasn't afraid—she was done. Done flinching, done crying, done pretending this city hadn't already killed them a hundred times.
She saw the name. Her expression didn't change.
Not surprised. Just… empty. Like someone who ran out of fear the same way people run out of breath.
"Speaker," she said.
Dry. Lifeless. Like every word was an echo of the girl she used to be.
Mou growled. Low and primal, like the room itself was rotting from the inside. His hackles raised. This wasn't a dog warning. This was a creature sensing something vile—the kind of thing that didn't belong in a world meant for the living.
Click.
"My lil roaches..."
The voice oozed through the speaker, thick and rancid. Like mold had grown vocal cords and decided to flirt with murder. It was sweet. Too sweet. Like syrup that'd gone rancid, mixed with old teeth and gutter water.
"Still scuttling through Velrian's sewer veins, huh? I figured by now you'd be organ soup on some merc's breakfast tray. Or hangin' from a collector's wall—spines polished, eyes in jars."
The pause came next. Not for effect—no, this silence devoured. It made the air cold. Made the walls sweat. You could hear his grin. You could smell it. Like dead rats and expensive cologne.
"I've got a job. One of the real dirty ones. High pay. Deep cuts. Dangerous enough to rip your soul out and choke you with it."
"You mess it up… I'll rip your skin off and turn it into a purse. Sell your teeth as dice in the blood pits. You'll be worth more as art than meat. Cute, right?"
Nolan's knees nearly gave out. He backed up into the corner, the room shrinking like it wanted to trap him.
"W-We're not—"
Alya moved. No hesitation. She stepped in front of him like a guillotine. Her voice? Steel dipped in gasoline, lit on fire, and hurled through glass.
"We're in."
Three syllables. No trembling. No questions.
It wasn't bravery. It was fatalism.
"That's my little warrior," Deadsmoke purred. His voice slithered now, amused and unclean.
"Smart. Fearless. Already dead inside. Keep your little Nolan boy in line, will ya? Wouldn't want his brain oozing out before the mission starts."
Click.
Silence.
Not peace—this silence was the kind that followed executions. The kind that settled in morgues and whispered in the bones of the forgotten.
Cut to: Broker's Office.
Somewhere deep in Velrian's underbelly, where rats wore suits and corpses made deals. The light here didn't exist. It hid.
Deadsmoke lounged in a throne of old bones, blood-slick currency, and stitched flesh. Velvet cushions soaked in more secrets than blood, and that was saying something. Smoke curled around him, thick and choking—not from the cigar between his blackened teeth, but from the rot he exhaled with every breath.
He looked like disease made sentient. Yellow teeth. Cracked nails. Eyebags the color of dried bruises. Skin that peeled in places, like he was halfway to decomposing and just didn't care.
A hulking bodyguard shifted uneasily. Full gear, bulletproof everything, and still trembling.
"You trust them?" the brute asked, low.
Deadsmoke turned, lips curling. His grin looked carved with a rusty knife.
"If they screw it up… I sell 'em. If they pull it off… I own them. "He chuckled, a sound like flies crawling through meat. "Either way… payday."
The bodyguard said nothing. He knew better than to argue with rot when it had claws.
Back in the room, Nolan was crumpled in the corner, breath shallow, shoulders trembling. His hands dug into his face like he could hold himself together through sheer pressure.
Alya crouched beside him, silent at first. She watched him unravel—not with pity, but with a quiet kind of strength. She reached out.
Her hand on his shoulder was soft. Human. Rare.
"We make it out," she whispered. "Or we don't. But no more running."
His voice cracked like porcelain.
"I'm scared, Alya."
She nodded once. "I know."
That was all. Just that. She didn't lie. Didn't tell him it'd be okay.
She just stayed.
Then Mou padded over. No words. Just weight. Warmth. Loyalty. He nudged Nolan's leg like a bouncer telling fear it wasn't welcome.
Then he flopped down across them like a living tank—an oversized blanket of fur and fury that dared the galaxy to try anything.
Nolan chuckled, the sound brittle and broken but real.
"Why's he always the therapist?"
Alya smirked, brushing a grease-slick strand of hair behind her ear.
"'Cause Mou doesn't bark at pain. He stares it in the face… then sits on it."
Mou grunted like, Damn right.
They leaned back, pressed together, huddled in the ruins of everything. They weren't heroes. They weren't even okay.
But they were still together.
And for now… that was enough.
A task of loss.