As Nero and Dorne walked for the better part of an hour, they finally arrived at what Dorne called "The Town." It wasn't much. Several houses teetered on the verge of collapse; some had already crumbled to rubble. Only five seemed sturdy enough to live in.
Dorne gave a half-smile. "Welcome to our town… or what's left of it, I guess."
Nero glanced around. Despite the decay, he saw people smiling, laughing. Children ran around, kicking up clouds of dust, playing with sticks and tattered toys. A woman waved from a doorstep. It wasn't much—but there was warmth here. Life. People were surviving. People were happy.
"This place looks like a dump," Nero muttered, voice low, still observing. "But… people are happy here."
Dorne followed his gaze and nodded. "It may look like a dump, but it's home. You'll fit right in. Come on, I'll introduce you to everyone."
As Dorne started forward, Nero grabbed his arm. "Stop."
Dorne turned. "What?"
Nero gestured at himself. Blood smeared across his clothes and skin. "Look at me. Covered in blood from head to toe… from who knows what. Everyone's going to freak when they see me."
Dorne considered for a moment, then unshouldered his backpack. Nero raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"
Dorne pulled out a bottle of water. "Here. Wash your face and hands with this."
"How's that going to help?" Nero asked, puzzled.
"Don't worry about it," Dorne replied. "Just do as I say." He uncapped the bottle and poured water over Nero's hands as Nero scrubbed at the dried blood. Cool liquid ran over his skin, the smell of iron fading, and for a brief moment, Nero felt almost human again.
After his hands, Nero began washing his face. With each splash, the blood faded, revealing the crack on his face more clearly. The water also washed the grime from his hair, uncovering snow-white strands beneath the murky brown. Sunlight glinted off them, catching the silver in his eyes and making him feel… exposed. Vulnerable.
Dorne's eyes widened. "Wow. Your hair is white. Like… really white."
Nero blinked in surprise. "Are you serious?"
Dorne nodded. "Swear on my life. Bent down—I'll pour the rest and wash it properly."
Nero lowered his head. The cool water ran down his neck as Dorne scrubbed, washing away what he could. The water ran out before every strand was spotless, but the stark contrast of white hair against the dirt and blood made Nero look otherworldly.
"I couldn't get rid of all of it," Dorne said, stepping back. "But yeah. Your hair's as white as it gets. Didn't notice earlier, but your eyebrows went white too. And those irises—silver."
Nero ran his fingers through his hair and touched the crack on his face, mind adrift. The laughter of the children in the distance, the wind through the battered rooftops, even the scent of dust and smoke—it all felt strange. Normal. A world he had no memory of, yet it tugged at something deep inside him.
Dorne studied him carefully, voice mock-serious. "Wait—what products do you use? Your hair… your face… I need this info. I have to copy this. Or did you always look like this?"
Nero blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… I… don't know, man."
Dorne's eyes went wide. "Wait… you mean… you don't even remember?"
Nero shook his head, shrugging, a hint of deadpan in his motion.
Dorne blinked, then laughed. "Ah, right. My bad. Forgot about the whole, you-know, amnesia thing."
Nero ran a hand through his hair, watching the sunlight glint off the white strands. For a moment, he just stood there. Something in the light… made him feel… a little alive.
"Now… can we go inside?" Dorne asked.
Nero exhaled, a soft sigh. "I don't see how anything has changed, but… fine. Lead the way."
And as they stepped toward the town, Nero's eyes lingered on the children, on the laughter, on the sunlight glinting through broken windows. For the first time in a long while, he felt the faintest stirrings of something he hadn't known he'd been missing: hope.
They walked forward together. Dorne tilted his head toward Nero and spoke under his breath.
"Wait here. I'll talk to them first and bring them over. Act cool."
Then he stepped away, heading toward the townspeople.
They watched him cautiously as he spoke, their eyes flicking past him—toward Nero. Worry crept into their expressions. After a moment, Dorne gestured back, and the group began to approach together.
Nero straightened slightly, instincts rising. He didn't know what to expect.
They came close.
Warm smiles. Firm handshakes. Curious looks. A few murmured whispers.
"Poor thing."
Nero frowned and glanced at Dorne.
Dorne said nothing—just gave him a smug smile and a thumbs-up.
The children were the boldest. A small group broke away, approaching Nero with wide eyes and giggles, fascinated by someone new. One by one, they reached out and touched him.
And then—
Everything changed.
Smiles vanished.
Color drained from their faces.
The laughter died mid-breath.
Some recoiled like they'd touched fire. Four of them broke down immediately—crying, shaking, terror ripping through them. The others froze where they stood, too afraid even to scream.
Nero's eyes widened a fraction. He took a slow step back.
Parents rushed forward, pulling their children close.
"What happened?"
"Why are you crying?"
Little Lina Raskin—ten years old—clung to her father, shaking uncontrollably. In a broken whisper, she said,
"I… I saw a monster…"
"A monster?" her father repeated, alarmed. "What are you talking about?"
Dorne's hand went to his sidearm on instinct as he scanned the area.
"There's nothing here," he said quickly. "Must've been your imagination."
But the children said nothing more. They buried their faces into their parents' clothes—or stared at Nero with hollow, haunted eyes.
Nero lowered his gaze. His jaw tightened.
He didn't know what they saw.
He didn't know what they felt.
But he knew one thing.
They were afraid of him.
A door slammed open nearby.
Ilana Keene ran out, breathless, pulling her seven-year-old son Tobin into her arms. She turned sharp eyes on Nero.
"Did you do something to them?" she demanded. "Who the hell are you?"
Nero said nothing. His eyes stayed on the ground.
Dorne stepped forward. "He has no memories of his past. He needs help."
Ilana snapped toward him. "Then why did you bring him here? He's covered in blood. He could be a psycho, for all we know."
"He's not," Dorne shot back. "I thought Anika could take a look at him. I wanted to help."
Nero hesitated, then spoke softly,
"I should go. I knew this would happen."
"No," Dorne said, voice firm. "You're not leaving."
"I—"
"You stay," Dorne cut in. "That's final."
He turned to the crowd.
"I'm still in charge around here. If I say Nero stays, he stays. If anyone's got a problem with it, they can take it up with me."
Silence.
No one argued.
One by one, the townspeople dispersed—heading back to their homes, casting wary glances over their shoulders.
Dorne looked back at Nero, his tone gentler now.
"Don't worry about them. I know you're a good guy. Give it time. They'll see it too."
"You didn't have to do this," Nero said quietly.
Dorne smirked and turned away.
"Follow me."
They arrived at Dorne's house.
It wasn't much—wooden floors, a dining area to the right, kitchen sharing the same space. Further back, a small shower. Upstairs, two cramped rooms. A basement below.
Old military relics were everywhere—helmets, medals, a battered rifle leaning against the wall. A home caught between war and what came after.
Upstairs, Dorne pointed to a side room.
"You can use that one. Bit cramped, but hey—there's a bed."
Nero stepped inside, glanced around, then paused.
"Back there… you said you promised me. What promise? You just said you knew a doctor."
Dorne chuckled low.
"Don't think too hard about it. Same thing."
Nero studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he stepped inside and sat on the small stool near the corner.
The room smelled faintly of dust and old leather.
His torn clothes hung heavier than they should have—not from fabric, but from the weight of thoughts pressing down on him.