Morning in Breakwater came grey, like it always did. The sun never seemed to break through the storm haze; it merely lit the clouds from behind like a tired lamp. Ash sat on the rooftop ledge, smoke rising faintly from vents below, and tried not to think about the night before.
He hadn't slept. Mina had curled herself into the corner under a sheet of corrugated tin, sketchbook under her arm like a pillow. She hadn't made a sound. If she dreamed, she hadn't let it out.
Ash rolled his lighter over his knuckles, metal clicking softly against bone. The storm had passed in the night, leaving everything slick, shining in a way that didn't make it clean. Down in the alleys, people were already shouting at each other, stalls banging open, carts rolling. The city didn't pause for grief. It didn't pause for anything.
Mina stirred, blinking awake. Her eyes tracked the skyline first, then him. Not the other way around. She sat up slowly, knees to her chest, sketchbook already open before she'd properly rubbed her eyes.
"You ever stop drawing?" Ash asked, his voice rough from exhaustion.
She didn't answer. Pencil moved anyway, lines sharp despite her small hands.
Ash rubbed his face and sighed. He wasn't built for kids. He wasn't built for anyone, if he was honest. But here she was, same as the pack last night—something handed to him, no say in it. And here he was, not letting go.
"Fine," he muttered. "We'll figure it out."
He took her down two blocks to a vendor he knew. Not a friend, but not an enemy either. Breakwater ran on those in-between relationships. The vendor sold clothes out of the back of a truck—cast-offs, rejects, secondhand imports.
Ash held up a jacket to Mina's shoulders. Too big. Another. Still too big. He finally found one close enough, patched denim lined with something that might once have been fleece. Mina didn't resist when he slipped it onto her, though her eyes never left his face as he did it—measuring him, like always.
"You're set," Ash said. "Try not to burn it."
She hugged the sketchbook tighter inside the jacket, as though that was the part worth protecting.
They grabbed food next. Flatbread stuffed with spiced beans. Cheap, filling, hot enough to sting his fingers. Mina bit into hers like she'd been starving, then slowed halfway, savouring each bite as if rationing mattered. Ash ate his in three swallows.
By midday, they were back on the rooftop. Ash stretched out, arms behind his head, staring at the clouds. The sea wind pushed in from the coast, smelling of rust and salt. Below, Breakwater's noise rose up—sirens distant, hawkers loud, the crackle of bad wiring bleeding ozone into the rain.
Mina drew.
Ash let his eyes close for a second too long.
"Sleeping on the job?" a voice called, sharp with amusement.
Ash's eyes snapped open. He sat up fast, hand halfway to his knife, before he registered the figure leaning against the stairwell door.
Cass.
Tall, wiry, half-smirk glued to her face. Her jacket was made of patched leather, her boots were steel-capped, and her hair was half-shaved and dyed a fading red. A pistol rode her hip like it belonged there.
"You gonna stab me just for saying hi?" she asked, pushing off the wall.
"Depends on how long you plan on standing there."
Cass laughed, low and throaty. "Still the charmer." She stepped closer, eyes flicking toward Mina. "And who's the kid?"
Mina froze, sketchbook clutched tight. Her pencil hovered, unmoving.
"No one," Ash said quickly. "Temporary complication."
Cass arched a brow. "She looks permanent to me."
Ash shot her a look. "What do you want?"
"Work." Cass dropped onto the ledge beside him, casual as if she'd owned the spot forever. "Word is Salvo's lining something bigger. And where Salvo goes, Moreno's not far behind. Thought I'd get in early."
Ash shook his head. "Salvo talks too much."
"Salvo talks just enough," Cass said. Her eyes glinted. "You in, I'm in. You know we work well together."
Ash didn't answer. The memories surfaced anyway—jobs run sharp and clean, near-misses covered by Cass's reckless laugh. She thrived where he survived. It was infuriating. It was effective.
Mina's pencil scratched again. Ash glanced at her page. She was drawing Cass. Every line was fast, precise, capturing the curve of her smirk.
Cass noticed, too, and leaned over. "That me? Damn, kid's good." She grinned at Ash. "Better likeness than you ever get in my head."
Mina didn't smile. Just kept drawing.
Ash rubbed his temples. The day was already too long.
Cass leaned back on her elbows, boots scraping the rusted ledge. The smirk stayed, but her eyes shifted from Ash to Mina.
"You draw all the time, huh?" Cass asked.
Mina glanced up, pencil pausing just long enough to register the question, then bent back to her page.
"Quiet type," Cass said. "That tracks. Breakwater doesn't exactly reward conversation."
Ash grunted. "She doesn't need you analysing her."
Cass shot him a grin. "Relax. Not trying to recruit her." She tilted her head at Mina. "What's she got there? Another portrait?"
Mina tilted the sketchbook just enough for Cass to see. A quick, sharp drawing of Cass's boots, steel caps gleaming with pencil shine.
Cass whistled. "Detail's scary. Kid, you could make a killing drawing for IDs. Fakes, passports, the whole shebang."
Ash stiffened. "She's not making IDs."
Cass smirked wider. "Oh, listen to you. Protective already." She leaned closer to Mina, her tone shifting softer without losing the rasp. "Don't let him box you in. If you're good at something, make it count. City doesn't hand you hobbies—it hands you leverage."
Mina studied her for a long second, then sketched again. She turned the page to show both of them: Cass on one side, boot propped, smirk half there. Ash, on the other hand, hood up, face shadowed, lighter in hand—two halves of the same rooftop.
Ash looked away first.
Cass stretched, arms over her head, then hopped off the ledge. "So. Job time. You've got that 'I'm broke but pretending I'm not' look."
"I'm fine," Ash muttered.
"You're never fine," Cass shot back. "But lucky you, I heard Salvo's running a pickup near the docks. Cargo goes missing, people get twitchy. Pays decent, if you're willing to get your shoes wet."
Ash's gut twisted. Docks meant cartel oversight, saltwater gangs, and corporate patrols sniffing for smugglers. He shook his head. "Too much heat."
Cass smirked. "Since when do you care about heat? That fire shook you worse than I thought."
Ash's jaw tightened. "Not interested."
Cass raised her hands. "Suit yourself. But word is he's pairing runners, and I already told him you'd be game."
Ash snapped his eyes to her. "You what?"
She shrugged, playful but with teeth under it. "Relax. We work better together. You handle the talk, I handle the mess. It'll be fun."
Ash muttered a curse under his breath. Cass thrived on recklessness, calling it a strategy. The worst part was—she wasn't wrong.
Mina flipped her sketchbook around again. This time, the page was split: one half Ash alone on the ledge, darker lines pressing him down. The other half showed Cass standing, sharp lines pushing upward, as if movement had been caught mid-step.
Cass barked a laugh. "See? Kid gets it. We're the act. You're the grim straight man, I'm the flair. Classic duo."
Ash rubbed his temple. "Don't encourage her."
Mina's pencil didn't pause.
Cass crouched down in front of Mina, ignoring Ash's glare. "So, kid. You sticking with him?"
Mina's eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring Cass's intent. Then she nodded once.
Cass smiled, softer now. "Good. Somebody's gotta keep him from turning into concrete." Her eyes lingered on Mina a beat too long, though—the kind of look that measured value as much as fondness.
Ash scowled. "She's not your project."
Cass stood, brushing off her knees. "Relax. I like her. She's sharper than most adults I know." She shot Ash a sideways glance. "Including you."
Ash opened his mouth, closed it again. Cass's grin widened.
"See you at the docks, Moreno," she said, already backing toward the stairwell. "Don't be late. And bring the kid if you want—she's got better eyes than both of us combined."
The door clanged shut behind her.
Silence stretched. Rain tapped on rust. The city below never stopped buzzing.
Ash leaned back against the ledge, staring up at the washed-out sky. "She's trouble," he muttered.
Mina didn't look up from her page. But this time, Ash swore he saw the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth.
The rooftop's quiet never lasted, not in Breakwater.
Ash let himself believe, just for a breath, that they could stay hidden here—above the rot, ghosts looking down on the city.
Then his phone buzzed.
He ignored it. Lit the lighter. Snapped it shut.
Buzz.
Another buzz. Longer this time. Salvo didn't like being ignored.
Ash flipped it open. A message, no greeting. Dockside. Midnight. Cargo job. Bring Cass. No excuses.
He stared at it, his thumb hovering over the delete button. Cass had been right. She'd signed him up before he could say no. And Salvo wasn't the type you refused without consequence.
Mina glanced at him from across the rooftop. Not at the phone—at him. She could always tell when something had shifted. Her pencil hovered mid-line, waiting.
Ash pocketed the phone. "Looks like we've got work."
He already knew he'd go. In Breakwater, choice was just another lie.
Mina's eyes narrowed, a faint crease in her brow. She didn't speak, but the sketch she finished said enough: a ship outlined in jagged strokes, waves crashing dark around it, a figure at the bow with its face lost in shadow.
Ash rubbed his temple. "Great. Even your drawings know before I do."
He stood, pulled his hood up. "Come on. We've got to move."
Mina closed her sketchbook carefully, tucking it inside her jacket. She followed, small steps, quick to match his stride, silent but close. Always close.
They slipped down the stairwell into the alleys, the city already shifting into its night rhythm. Neon signs flickered awake, voices rose sharper, laughter too loud to be real. Breakwater's heartbeat picked up with the dark.
Ash felt the weight of the envelope from Salvo in his pocket. Not enough to buy them safety. Never enough.
The docks job was a risk. Cass made it worse. Mina made it impossible.
But he was already walking toward it.
Toward the water.
Toward whatever waited in the dark.