The tunnels stayed quiet long after the kids disappeared into the dark.
Victor hadn't spoken once since they left the collapse site. He moved ahead, flashlight bobbing, shoulders tight under his jacket. The beam cut through old graffiti and twisted rebar, but never once touched Jack.
Jack followed a few steps behind, boots dragging through puddles that smelled like rust and oil. His hand wouldn't stop twitching. Every heartbeat came with that low hum in his skull — not words, just vibration. Like Marcus was waiting for the right moment to speak again.
He didn't. That almost made it worse.
They came to an old service station where the tunnels widened into a cavern. Broken benches, scraps of posters, the smell of damp metal. Victor stopped, checked his rifle, and sat down.
Jack stayed standing.
"You're quiet," Jack said finally.
Victor didn't look up. "You nearly gutted me back there."
Jack exhaled through his nose. "I didn't."
"You thought about it."
The words hung there. Not an accusation. Just truth.
Jack didn't answer. He leaned against a wall, hands buried in his coat pockets. His reflection swayed faintly in a puddle at his feet — fractured, but his own. For now.
Victor rubbed his eyes. "You saw those kids."
"Yeah."
"They think you're some kind of savior."
Jack gave a bitter laugh. "They're wrong."
"They don't know that."
He looked up then, meeting Victor's eyes. "And what do you think I am?"
Victor stared at him for a long time. His expression didn't change, but his voice came out tired — like every word was a splinter. "I think you're trying. I think you're losing."
Jack looked away first.
Silence again. Only the soft drip of water and the distant hum of the tunnels.
After a while, Victor spoke again, softer this time. "Back before the Sprawl fell, there was a squad we used to run with. Guy named Moreau. Good shot, better heart. Got infected by Revenant code during a sweep. Kept fighting it for weeks. Said he could feel the metal in his thoughts."
Jack's gaze drifted back to him.
"One night, he froze during a raid," Victor continued. "Didn't pull the trigger. We lost half the team. You know what I did?"
Jack didn't answer.
"I put him down." Victor's jaw flexed. "Because waiting for him to turn was worse than the turning itself."
Jack's throat went dry.
"So if I ever do it again," Victor said, meeting his eyes, "you'll know why."
Neither of them moved. The silence felt alive. Heavy.
Jack crouched down, elbows on his knees. "You always think you're the only one with blood on your hands."
Victor shot him a sharp look.
Jack didn't stop. "You talk about mercy like it's clean. But you didn't kill Moreau to save anyone. You did it because you couldn't stand watching him lose himself. Because it scared you."
Victor stood up so fast the bench screeched. "Don't."
Jack smiled without humor. "You ever wonder if you just like being the last good man in the room?"
Victor's jaw clenched. He stepped close, nose to nose with Jack. "You don't know what good means anymore."
Jack looked at him — really looked at him. The fear under the anger. The guilt hiding under the steady aim.
"Maybe not," he said quietly. "But I know what it costs."
They stood like that for a beat too long. Then Victor turned away, muttering a curse, pacing toward the dark.
That's when they heard it — distant footsteps, voices echoing down the far tunnel.
Both men froze.
Victor raised his light, catching a flicker of movement — not Constructs. People. Dozens of them. Survivors from deeper in the Sprawl, pushing carts, dragging supplies, holding homemade banners lit by battery lamps.
The crowd parted when they saw Jack. Someone at the front dropped to one knee.
"King," the man whispered.
Others followed, kneeling, murmuring the word until it spread through the chamber like a prayer.
Victor's face went pale. "Jack…"
Jack's pulse pounded in his ears. He wanted to tell them to stop — to get up, to run, to do anything else. But his voice caught.
Because in the glow of their lamps, he saw it: graffiti scrawled high on the tunnel wall. A crown, drawn in ash and blood, still dripping. Beneath it, someone had written one word: HALO.
Marcus's old mark.
Victor's hand went to his rifle. "This is a setup."
"No," Jack whispered. His hand trembled at his side. "It's an echo."
The crowd moved closer. A woman reached for his coat, whispering, "Save us."
He stepped back. "Don't."
But they didn't stop. They were desperate, filthy, half-starved — eyes shining with something he hadn't seen in a long time. Hope.
It hit him harder than any weapon.
Victor grabbed his arm. "We have to go."
Jack didn't move. His gaze swept over them — faces turned upward, trembling hands clutching at him like he was already their answer.
He felt the hum inside him surge. Marcus's voice threaded through the noise, soft as a secret:
"They've already chosen, Jack. All you have to do is say yes."
Jack swallowed hard. He turned to Victor, eyes wet with something that wasn't entirely anger. "If I walk away… they die."
Victor shook his head. "You can't save them."
"Maybe I can't." Jack's voice cracked. "But maybe he can."
Victor's grip tightened. "You say that again, and I'll—"
Jack yanked his arm free. "Then do it, Vic. If you're going to stop me—do it now."
For a second, Victor actually raised the rifle. Then he saw the faces behind Jack — the kids from before, watching from the edge of the crowd — and he couldn't pull the trigger.
Jack saw the hesitation. He turned away and stepped forward, toward the kneeling crowd.
The chant started again. Soft. Relentless.
"King."
Victor lowered the gun, eyes hollow. The sound followed them both, echoing through the tunnels long after Jack disappeared into the mass of bodies.