The wind whistled past the rusted skeletons of cranes as they left the harbor behind, carrying with it the metallic tang of decay and salt. Rhett could taste it on his tongue—bitter, like blood that had gone cold. Their footsteps were slow, dragging, each of them limping in a different rhythm that created an uneven percussion against the cracked asphalt.
Rhett kept stealing glances at Henrik's hunched form, watching the way his shoulders curved inward like he was trying to disappear into himself. His gait was all wrong—favoring his right leg, his left arm still cradled against his side like a dying bird. His breaths came in shallow pulls, audible even over the wind, and every few steps he'd falter, just for a moment, before forcing himself forward again.
It was hard not to notice. Where Rhett's body had reset itself to pristine condition—no aches, no cuts, no exhaustion—Henrik looked like he was being eaten alive from the inside out. His skin had gone bone-white, pulled tight against his skull in a way that made his eyes look like dark holes. The pitch-black cloak that had once made him look dangerous now hung off him like a burial shroud, barely covering his torso.
He used to be a hero, Rhett reminded himself, trying to reconcile the image of 'heroes' he had in his mind and the walking corpse in front of him.
They passed a wrecked sedan lodged halfway into a storefront, its windows blown out and interior soaked with rainwater that had turned murky with rust and debris.
Just ahead, a dark, three-story structure loomed against the gray sky. The old hotel had partially collapsed on one side, its facade crumbling away to reveal the skeletal framework beneath. But the main entrance was still intact—its sliding glass doors stuck open at awkward angles, like a mouth frozen mid-scream.
"This'll do," Henrik said, already making for the doors. His voice was flat, professional, but Rhett caught the slight tremor underneath.
They stepped inside, and the sudden absence of wind felt like stepping into a tomb. The floor inside the lobby was marble, cracked and water-stained, with dark streaks that could have been rust or something worse. Broken furniture and luggage carts lay scattered across the room like the remnants of some final, desperate evacuation. A security camera blinked lifelessly from its mount, its red light pulsing in a rhythm that reminded Rhett uncomfortably of a heartbeat.
"Let's go up a floor," Henrik muttered, his eyes scanning the shadows with the paranoid intensity of someone who'd learned not to trust empty spaces. "If someone's squatting here, I'd rather not meet them tonight."
As if summoned by his words, someone walked out of the corner.
The man was a walking nightmare—scraggly and bent, with torn clothes hanging off his emaciated frame like shed skin. His hair and beard were greasy, overgrown, going in all directions like he'd been electrocuted. But it was his eyes that made Rhett's stomach clench. They were too bright, too wild, the kind of brightness that came from staring too long into the dark.
Henrik immediately shifted into a fighting stance, but the effect was almost comical. Where once he might have looked like death incarnate, now he just looked like a skeleton playing dress-up. His bone-white skin had lost all its color, and his frame was so gaunt that Rhett half-expected him to topple over from the effort of standing upright.
Damn, Rhett thought, he looks worse than the squatter.
The man's eyes darted between them, his hand reaching for something behind his back. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, cracked, like he'd been screaming for days.
"Are y'all Grand's people?" he barked, licking his lips with a tongue that was too pale, too dry. His eyes trembled with the same calculating vigor Rhett had seen in Henrik's, except wilder, more desperate. "You're not gonna take me to the Arena! I don't even have a quirk!"
The mention of the Arena sent a chill down Rhett's spine. He'd heard that name before—from Daimon and Natos, delivered like a threat. Pay tribute or face the Arena. The way this guy said it, though, made it sound like something much worse than a simple fight.
The man was already backing away, his whole body trembling with barely contained panic. He didn't have the intimidating energy of the BeastMaster, or the cold competence of Iron Knight, or even the casual cruelty of Daimon and Natos. He was just afraid. Terrified, actually, in a way that made Rhett's chest ache.
"We're not here to fight," Rhett said, raising his hands slowly. "We don't work for this... Grand person you're talking about. Go your way and we'll go ours."
The man nodded frantically and bolted in the opposite direction, his footsteps echoing through the empty lobby until they faded into silence. Rhett let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"One crisis averted, I guess," he sighed, but the words felt hollow. He'd almost forgotten that some people were still living in these dead parts of the city, scraping by on fear and desperation.
But the man's words stuck with him. The Arena. The same place Daimon and Natos had threatened to drag them if they didn't pay tribute. Was that how the villains controlled the survivors? By using them as entertainment?
Henrik was already at the stairs, somehow looking even more shaken than before. His hands were trembling slightly, and he kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected the squatter to come back with friends.
"We need to get to the roof," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We can see everything happening in the city from that height."
Then, even quieter: "Besides, it's the only way I can find a measure of peace in this hellhole."
Rhett heard, but didn't comment. There was something raw in Henrik's voice, something that made him think of wounded animals looking for somewhere safe to die.
Water dripped from their clothes with every step they took, leaving a trail of dark spots on the dusty stairs. The steps groaned under their weight, and Rhett found himself holding his breath, waiting for the whole structure to collapse beneath them.
On the second floor, they found a hallway with busted lights and peeling wallpaper that curled down from the walls like dead skin. The air smelled of mildew and something else—something sweet and rotten that made Rhett's nose wrinkle.
"I think we should look around for stuff," Rhett said, trying to keep his voice light. "You know, food, clothes, that kind of stuff."
Henrik gave him a wary glance, like he was suspicious of the casual tone. "Yeah. Let's scavenge for resources."
"Yeah, that," Rhett scoffed at Henrik's clinical phrasing. Even now, even looking like he was about to collapse, the guy couldn't just talk like a normal person. Everything had to be tactical, professional, like he was filing a report instead of having a conversation.
They tried the doors, leaving the locked ones alone—no point in wasting energy they didn't have. Most of the rooms were empty anyway, stripped clean by previous scavengers or abandoned in such a hurry that there was nothing worth taking. It wasn't until they reached Room 203 that they found something promising.
The door was still there, even if it didn't quite sit right in the frame. Henrik gave it a hard shove with his shoulder, and it scraped open with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.
The room inside smelled like mildew and dust, but it was dry. A mattress, stained but whole, still sat on its frame. A dresser had collapsed sideways, spilling clothes and personal items across the floor.
"Check the fridge and cupboards for food," Henrik commanded, already moving toward the bed. He picked up the bedsheet and began tearing it into smaller pieces with the blade embedded in his forearm, wrapping the strips around his wounds to staunch the bleeding.
Rhett watched him work, noting the way Henrik's hands shook slightly, the way he had to stop every few seconds to catch his breath. The makeshift bandages would keep him stable for now, but they weren't a real solution. Just another way of delaying the inevitable.
What happens when you run out of ways to hold yourself together? Rhett wondered, but he didn't voice the thought. Instead, he turned his attention to the room, trying to piece together the story it told.
The people here had left in a hurry, that much was obvious. He could almost see it happening—a man rushing for the door, knocking over a glass that shattered on the floor, a woman frantically packing clothes and shoving them into a suitcase, accidentally leaving some behind. Had they made it out? Or were they just bones in some alley now, picked clean by the things that prowled the ruins?
On the table, a plate held the remains of what had once been an egg sandwich. Now it was covered in green and white mold, crawling with maggots and ants that moved in slow, purposeful patterns. The stench was horrible—sweet and rotten and wrong in a way that made Rhett's eyes water.
For a moment, he was actually tempted to eat it. The hunger was that bad. But he'd rather die on an empty stomach than subject himself to food poisoning on top of everything else.
Apart from the sandwich, there were a few untouched complementary condiments and sachets of coffee scattered around the room. Not exactly a feast, but better than nothing.
"Jackpot," Rhett muttered under his breath as he reached the mini-fridge. The previous occupants had left in such a hurry that they'd abandoned even the basics.
Inside the white walls of the refrigerator, he found three tin cans of sardines and a few bottles of water. Not much, but for two half-dead boys, it might as well have been a banquet.
"Found something, Henrik. Want some fish?" Rhett asked as he peeled the first can open. The smell hit him immediately—salty, briny, but not rotten. The cans were sealed airtight, so they'd last for years.
He picked up a piece and put it in his mouth, letting the salty taste wash over his tongue. The flesh was soft, the tiny bones crunching between his molars, and he savored it like it was the finest meal he'd ever tasted. Because honestly, who knew when they'd find food again?
"Yo, Henrik?" Rhett called out when he realized the other boy hadn't responded. He turned to look and found Henrik standing perfectly still in front of the mattress, staring into space like he was seeing something that wasn't there.
He was shivering, Rhett realized. Not from cold—the room was actually warmer than the street.
"Henrik," Rhett said more firmly, approaching him and placing a hand on his shoulder.
The reaction was immediate and violent. Henrik spun around, his blade extending from his forearm with a sound like metal scraping against bone. His eyes were wild, unfocused, and for a moment Rhett thought he was going to strike.
"What!" Henrik yelled, his voice raw and desperate.
Rhett could see the exact instant when recognition flooded back into Henrik's eyes, followed immediately by something that might have been shame. The blade retracted with a soft snick, and Henrik's shoulders sagged.
"I..." Henrik started, then stopped, looking down at his hands like he didn't recognize them.
Rhett wanted to say something, anything, but the words stuck in his throat. He'd seen that look before, in the mirror, after particularly bad deaths. The look of someone who'd been split apart and put back together wrong.
"I got something for you to eat," Rhett said finally, tossing him one of the remaining cans. Henrik caught it with reflexes that were still sharp despite everything else.
"You okay?" Rhett asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "You're not gonna bleed out overnight, are you?"
Henrik turned his head slowly away, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "If I do, good riddance."
"Okay, that's not dramatic at all," Rhett said, trying to inject some lightness into his voice.
"Whatever," Henrik replied, but there was no heat in it. Just exhaustion. "And YOU? Are YOU okay?"
"Uh, yeah. I'm pretty good," Rhett shrugged. It was true, physically at least. All his injuries had been reset with his last death. He was perfectly healthy, which somehow made Henrik's condition seem even worse by comparison.
"Are you really okay?" Henrik asked again, and this time there was something sharper in his voice. "Really okay. In the head?"
Rhett blinked, caught off guard by the question. "My head feels fine too. What are you going on about?"
"You're retarded," Henrik growled, but the insult lacked its usual bite. It sounded more like a reflex than actual anger. "Gather what you found. Let's go to the roof."
Rhett nodded, collecting the remaining sardine cans and water bottles. He found a plain shirt among the scattered clothes and tied the sleeves together to form a makeshift knapsack. Since his own clothes had been shredded in the fight, he grabbed another shirt from the pile and put it on.
It was too big on him, the sleeves extending past his hands, but something about it felt right. The fabric was soft, worn in the way that spoke of long use and careful washing. It seemed like the kind of thing a dad might wear.
Dad, Rhett thought, and felt that familiar ache in his chest. He'd never really had one, not in any way that mattered. But wearing this shirt, he could almost imagine what it might have been like.
Something about that made him want to keep it, to carry this small piece of someone else's normal life with him into whatever came next.
As Henrik moved away from the edge, Rhett caught a glint of something in the rubble near his feet. Kneeling down, he found two rings scattered among the debris—simple bands, one gold and one silver, both scratched and tarnished but still intact. There was an inscription on the inside of the gold one, too worn to read completely, but he could make out the words "forever" and "always."
Wedding rings, he realized. Someone's promise to love each other no matter what. Someone's vow to stay together until death do them part.
Without really thinking about it, Rhett picked them up. The gold one fit a little loosely on his left ring finger, and he slipped the silver one into his pocket. He wasn't sure why he was doing it—but he had a feeling it might be cool to have.
"Besides," He thought to himself sheepishly. "I did promise Lucille. . ."
They made their way up the remaining flight of stairs, the silence between them heavy with unspoken things. The roof access door was unlocked, hanging open on rusted hinges, and they stepped out into the night air.