Dawn seeped into the Rust Sprawl like smoke through cracks, pale light cutting against the blackout. The streets looked brittle in the morning haze—puddles glazed with oil, walls sagging under graffiti, the air thick with the aftertaste of burned-out mechs.
Jack walked first, his coat dragging ash with each step. Victor followed close, boots crunching on glass. The silence between them wasn't empty; it was layered, settling heavy, the way ash blankets a fire long after it's burned out.
They passed a scorched banner drooping from a lamppost. The Authority's seal still clung to the fabric, but the words had peeled away. Jack's eyes lingered on the black outline at its base—a body shape burned into the metal. He kept walking.
Victor stopped, just for a second. He'd seen that shape before. Not here—years ago, when Marcus's experiments had swallowed a whole squad in flame and left nothing but outlines. He hadn't told Jack that. He doubted he ever would.
He caught up. "You didn't sleep."
Jack didn't turn. "Neither did you."
Victor almost smiled. "Yeah, but I still try."
Jack's hand flexed at his side. "Trying won't save us."
The words hung. Ash drifted between them.
They ducked into a marketplace hollowed out by fire. Tarps sagged with rainwater, crates splintered open. On the far wall, a crown had been spray-painted, black paint dripping like fresh wounds.
Victor stopped beneath it, staring. "They're not afraid of you anymore."
Jack's jaw set. "Good."
"That's not what I meant." Victor's voice sharpened, almost cracking. His chest was tight, the memory still alive of the last man he'd watched give himself over to Marcus—smiling one day, ashes the next. He hadn't stepped in then. He wasn't going to let it happen again.
Jack turned toward him, eyes too still. "Then say what you mean."
Victor's throat worked. His hand twitched like he wanted to grab Jack's arm, anchor him. Instead, he pointed at the dripping crown. "They don't see you. They see what he wants them to. A monster with a crown."
For a moment Jack's gaze blurred, and the paint on the wall seemed to ripple, bending into Marcus's grin. He blinked, shook it off, but Victor saw the flinch.
"Jack?"
No answer. Just a low laugh, sharp and humorless. "Would it matter if I wasn't myself?"
Victor's chest went cold. That was too close to the same words Marcus had once whispered to him—years ago, in the middle of a blackout raid. He'd walked away then. Barely.
He stepped closer now, so close he could feel Jack's heat through the rain. "It matters to me."
Jack's eyes flicked up, and for a heartbeat Victor thought he saw recognition—or was it Marcus, staring through him? The air between them burned like cinders waiting for wind.
Jack turned away first. "We should keep moving."
Victor stayed a beat longer, staring at the crown. The paint was still wet, glistening in the dawn light. He lifted his hand, then pulled it back before the black could stain his fingers.
As he followed Jack, the silence settled again—ash between them, harder to breathe with every step.