Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Bazaar loomed against the city skyline, its walls stitched together from scrap metal, plywood, and chain-link fencing. A sprawl of UV lamps buzzed overhead, casting sterile blue halos across the perimeter.

Rumi reached the outer gate just as the final edge of sun dipped beneath the ruins of the skyline. She was trying to put her, now shortened, purple hair into a ponytail. She had cut it after a run in with a zombie and a vent.

The guards were already starting to shut it down.

"Wait!" Mira called out, breathless, jogging the last few steps beside her. "She's with me. Let us in."

A pair of guys stood at the entry: one short and square-shouldered, the other tall with his sleeves rolled up past sun-scarred elbows. They glanced down from the watch deck.

“Show me your biomarkers.”

What is that?  Rumi thought to herself.

“You see my face. You know I’ve been here before.” Mira gritted out, trying to push her way in. The door was being blocked by a third person, burly and short hair.

“Shouldn’t have a problem showing me then.”

Mira raised her arm, showing off her bracelet glowing green.

“Alright now the other one.”

“Come on, I’ll vouch for her.” Mira’s eyes glared at the guy blocking the door.

The guards exchanged a look.

“No biomarker, no entrance.”

The gate slammed shut.

Mira kicked the door. “Fuckers!”

A moment of silence followed.

Then the UV lights were shut off.

“Oh fuck.” Mira whispered, more to herself than to Rumi.

They both turned at once—back to the street, back to the dark.

The night was here.

And something was already moving towards them.

~

They ran.

Hard.

Fast.

Through tight alleys and rubble-choked intersections. Past husks of humans to the top of the roofs. Mira took the lead, calling out turns as they raced to a safe house.

A shriek tore through the air behind them.

Not a biter. Not a Howler.

Something worse.

The sound curled down Rumi’s spine like ice water.

She didn’t have to look back to know what it was.

A Volatile.

And it was close.

Mira cursed, pulled sharply into a narrow corridor between two collapsed apartment blocks, and vaulted over a fallen steel door. Rumi followed, breathing ragged, boots skidding on broken glass.

They emerged onto a low rooftop and then froze.

On the far side of the building, under a shattered skylight, stood the Volatile.

It hunched, twitching. Sniffing the air.

And it had already seen them.

Rumi’s mouth went dry. She would never get over seeing them. Its frame had exposed bone and muscle, with a mandible jaw.

Mira whispered, “We have to move. Now.”

The thing turned its head.

Then it screamed.

And it charged.

“Go!” Mira shouted, shoving Rumi toward a metal ladder. “Go now—don’t stop!”

But the Volatile was faster than either of them expected.

It was on the roof in seconds—clearing the gap with a single leap. Concrete cracked beneath its claws.

Mira swung her machete.

The blow landed.

But the thing barely flinched. It lunged, jaws wide.

Rumi didn’t think, she just moved.

She tackled Mira to the side, just as the Volatile’s claws carved through the air where her chest had been. The two of them hit the ground hard, Mira cursing, Rumi rolling to her feet between them and the creature.

“Move!” Rumi shouted. “Get to the ladder!”

Mira hesitated.

“Go!”

Then she ran.

The Volatile swiped at Rumi—fast and wild. She ducked. Countered. Swung the pipe two-handed into its ribs. It let out a roar and reeled back, just long enough for Rumi to pivot and sprint after Mira.

Mira scrambled down the ladder.

Rumi however didn’t have time for that, just as she got to the edge of the roof. She spotted it.

A beat up old van.

She jumped.

For a few weightless seconds, Rumi breathed.

Then she tucked and rolled, the van’s roof denting under her weight.

The Volatile landed on the ledge above, shrieking.

Its claws scraped the bricks.

They hit the ground and kept running.

The safe house was just ahead now. Mira fumbled for the lock on the metal door, fingers trembling.

“Three, nine, seven—shit—five—”

The Volatile was on the street now.

Too fast.

Too close.

“Got it!” Mira yanked the door open.

Rumi spun just as the creature lunged.

She turned the pipe in her hands, waited for the lunge, and then—sidestepped, slammed the pipe across its face, and kicked the thing straight into the stack of rusted shopping carts outside the store.

It shrieked.

But she was already inside.

Mira slammed the door shut.

Locked it.

UV lights flared to life from the ceiling—dim, battery-fed, but bright enough to bathe the entryway in safe blue glow.

Outside, the Volatile rammed the door once.

Twice.

Then it was gone.

The street fell silent.

Rumi slid down the wall, heart still racing.

Mira sat beside her, panting, arms braced on her knees.

For a while, they didn’t say anything.

Just breathed.

Listened to the hum of the old UV lights.

Then finally, Mira turned her head.

“…You saved me.”

Rumi didn’t look at her. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“You could’ve left me.”

“Should’ve.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Rumi shrugged. “You’re housing me for the night.”

~

The next day they made it to the hospital.

Saint Joseph Hospital was a cathedral of rot.

Its skeletal frame stretched high over the ruins of the Old Town, gutted by fire and time. Charred curtains fluttered from busted windows. UV lamps once strung along the entry had long since shattered — their glass fragments scattered like salt on the bloodstained pavement.

Rumi eyed the entrance from behind a half-buried ambulance, breathing slow through her scarf. "Looks abandoned."

“It is,” Mira said, crouched beside her. “But the lab inside still works. Parts of it. You want a biomarker? This is where we get one.”

Rumi didn’t reply. She just glanced at the sky — dim, darkening. The last band of orange was already bleeding out behind the rooftops. She adjusted her grip on the rusted pipe in her hand.

Mira tapped her forearm. “We go in, stick together, and get out. Quiet.”

“Copy that,” Rumi said, then under her breath: “Bossy.”

Mira smirked once, quick and dry, before leading the way.

~

The interior of the hospital was suffocatingly dark, broken only by their flashlights — a low, humming beam that made the spores glow. The walls were covered in graffiti, some of it warnings, some of it prayers.

Don’t Wake Them.
Stay Low.
UV or Die.

The first few corridors were quiet — eerily so. Shufflers moved in slow patterns beyond cracked windows and open rooms. The infected didn’t react to the light — not yet.

But the real danger came three floors up.

They hit the old surgical ward, where dozens of infected crouched motionless in the shadows — bent double like broken scarecrows. Their bodies twitched every few seconds. Not asleep. Not awake.

Waiting.

Rumi froze. Her hand gripped the edge of a broken gurney, her knuckles white.

“Mira…” she whispered.

“Yeah. I see them.”

They moved slowly now — slower than before. One step. Pause. One breath. Another.

A bottle shattered in a distant hallway.

Every crouched body twitched.

A long, sickening inhale echoed through the darkness.

But no one moved. No one rose.

Rumi’s breath stayed locked in her chest. She could feel her biomarker-less wrist aching with heat. She needed out of here.

Mira motioned toward a stairwell. “That’s the lab. Just ahead. Come on.”

They slid past a bent-over corpse in scrubs. Its eyes were open.

It didn’t blink.

~

The lab was trashed — overturned chairs, flickering monitors, empty IV bags swinging from cords. But there, in the center of the room, under a still-working UV lamp, was a storage case. Mira unlocked it with a small key she’d kept looped through her necklace.

Inside: three biomarkers. Dusty, but sealed.

She took one, brushed it off, and turned to Rumi. “Wrist.”

Rumi hesitated. Something about the moment made her stomach twist.

Mira looked up at her, calm but sharp. “You’ll turn without it. This keeps track of your infection. This buys you time. Trust me.”

Rumi slowly extended her arm.

The bracelet clicked into place — snug, cold.

“Sorry.”

White pain overtook her sight.

“Ah fuck!”

But then.

It pulsed once — yellow.

Still human.

Still time.

~

They didn’t get far.

The stairwell down to the ground floor was jammed with collapsed debris, so Mira led them toward the elevator shaft — the only vertical shortcut left.

“You first,” she whispered, hooking her rope to an old maintenance loop.

Rumi nodded and began her descent. The rope groaned. Rust flaked off the wall. Her boots scraped the metal rungs, careful, careful—

Then the wall gave way.

A panel snapped free.

The rope slipped.

Rumi dropped.

She hit a landing hard — ribs slamming into metal — then rolled over the edge and fell the last fifteen feet.

Her shoulder cracked against the floor.

Everything went black for a second.

~

When she opened her eyes, she was alone.

The light from above was dim, and the shaft was silent except for the hum of Mira’s panicked voice through the broken walkie on her shoulder.

“Rumi? Rumi, do you copy?”

Rumi coughed, wincing. “Still here.”

“Shit. You’re two floors down. I’m coming—just hang on.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

Rumi sat up, pushing through the pain. “Don’t come down. You won’t make it back up.”

Silence.

Mira’s next words were tighter. “Then haul ass. Now.”

Rumi got to her feet. Her pipe was gone. Her knees felt like shattered glass.

But the biomarker on her wrist blinked yellow and it was already fading toward orange.

That was all the motivation she needed.

She pushed through the hallway, moving fast, shouldering through a broken door—

And froze.

At the end of the corridor, standing in the weak shaft of moonlight leaking through a collapsed wall—

A Volatile.

Its head twitched toward her.

Rumi didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

The thing dropped to all fours.

And screamed.

~

She ran.

Blood pounding in her ears. Boots slapping against tile and bone and glass. The halls twisted, unlit and unmarked, the map in her head flickering with panic.

Behind her, claws raked against the walls.

A table flipped as the thing leapt.

She ducked into a stairwell, hit the first landing, and kept going.

The beast howled behind her — faster than it should be, louder than it had to be.

The last door was rusted half-shut.

She barreled through it shoulder-first.

Outside.

Concrete and smoke and the sky — just beginning to bloom with color.

The sun.

It was rising.

The Volatile burst from the stairwell, screaming.

But Rumi was already in the open, already sprinting.

Light crept over the rooftops.

The creature slowed — hissed — then reeled back.

Smoke curled from its flesh.

One more step, and it would’ve had her.

Instead, it retreated, vanishing into the darkness like a phantom swallowed by time.

Rumi collapsed onto the ground, gasping.

Above, Mira’s silhouette moved along a broken scaffold. “You alive down there?”

“…Barely.”

The Bazaar felt different from the rooftops.
Louder. Hotter. Closer.

Down here, under the rusted catwalks and patchwork tents, it was all motion — tools clanking, kids shouting, steam hissing from the mechanic’s rigged-up boilers. Smelled like grease, meat, and too many people breathing the same stale air.

Rumi stuck close behind Mira as they passed through the main corridor, but didn’t try to match her stride. Mira moved like someone used to being watched, used to being followed. Rumi moved like someone who wasn’t sure she’d be staying.

“You good?” Mira asked over her shoulder.

“Depends on your definition.”

Mira gave a dry smile and kept walking.

They turned past the communal kitchen — a few heads turned, but no one spoke — and climbed the metal stairs to the upper level. At the top, a rust-streaked door creaked open without a knock.

Inside was Sophie.

Leaning against the wall beside a map cluttered with pinholes and faded ink. Arms crossed. Her stare was more weight than weapon — quiet, sharp, and built to cut without ever drawing blood.

“You made a friend,” she said to Mira, eyes never leaving Rumi.

Mira’s answer was quiet but steady. “We ran into a Volatile. She saved my life.”

Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Was it mutual?”

“Barely.”

“Then that makes you even,” Sophie said, stepping forward. “So. Who are you?”

“Rumi,” she answered. “I’m just passing through.”

Sophie tilted her head. “People who say that usually don’t.”

Rumi shrugged. “Maybe I’m not people.”

Something flickered in Sophie’s eyes, it was hard to tell what. “And you’re looking for what, exactly? Food? Shelter? A flag to stand under?”

“None of those,” Rumi said. “But I could use work.”

Sophie glanced at Mira.

“She can handle herself,” Mira said simply.

“And what makes you think we need anyone new?”

Rumi was about to answer when the door behind them slammed open.

Broad shoulders, busted knuckles, the kind of energy that never entered a room quietly.

He walked in like he owned the floorboards. “You’ve got to be kidding. Another one?”

Sophie didn’t even flinch. “Barney, this is Mira’s guest.”

“She doesn’t look like much.”

Rumi didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just met his stare with the same exhausted indifference she gave to shrieking virals and swinging blades.

“She just survived Saint Joseph’s,” Mira said evenly.

Barney snorted. “Lucky her.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Rumi said.

Barney took a step closer. “Then what do you believe in?”

Mira stepped in between them, voice cool. “She’s not here to fight, Barney.”

“Then what’s she here for?” he asked, eyes never leaving Rumi. “We already have too many mouths and not enough clean water. Don’t need another ghost with a pipe and something to prove.”

“She’s asking to work,” Sophie said.

Barney scoffed. “So let her fetch buckets, then. Keep her out of the real shit.”

“Enough,” Sophie snapped. It wasn’t loud, but it hit like a blade against stone.

Silence fell.

She looked at Rumi again. Not quite a test. Not quite mercy. “You still want in?”

“For now,” Rumi said.

“Then I’ve got a job for you. Real simple. You know the Rooftop, school? UV’s been flickering. I want you to check the wiring, replace the coils if they’re shot. After that I need you to set up a safe zone for runners.”

Rumi nodded. “When?”

“Now.”

Mira spoke up. “I’ll go with her.”

“No,” Sophie said quickly. “You’re with Barney on the wall. PK scout routes.”

Barney grinned, almost proud of being an inconvenience. “Can’t wait.”

Sophie ignored him. “Rumi goes alone. You want to prove yourself? Do it quiet. Do it clean. Come back whole.”

Rumi met her gaze. “Copy that.”

She turned and left without waiting for permission. Mira lingered a second, then followed her out into the stairwell.

~

“Sorry about Barney,” Mira said quietly, once the door shut behind them.

“Don’t be,” Rumi replied. “He’s not the worst thing I’ve run into this week.”

Mira leaned against the rail, arms folded. “You sure about doing this solo?”

“No,” Rumi said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”

Mira watched her for a moment. “You ever think about staying?”

Rumi paused. “Not really.”

“You should.”

They stood there in the warm hush of evening, the Bazaar humming quietly beneath them.

Then Rumi turned and walked off into the fading light — toward Sector 5, with a thought on her mind.

“Clean water hmm?”

~

The Goon stood motionless in the middle of the ruined intersection.

Its silhouette was etched in morning haze — a grotesque sculpture of bulk and blood, wrapped in shredded riot gear and bloated muscle. At its side, embedded into cracked asphalt, was its weapon: a massive hammer made from a bent steel beam welded into a slab of concrete, painted faintly with an old Peacekeeper insignia.

From the east watchtower, Sophie leaned forward, elbows braced against the rusted railing. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but already the Bazaar felt tight with unease. Silent. Still.

“I don’t like this,” Sophie muttered.

Mira stood next to her, arms crossed, jaw set hard. Her eyes hadn’t left the Goon once. “It hasn’t moved all night.”

“That thing has been pacing around our gate for three days.” Sophie’s fingers drummed against the metal. “We’ve sent out bait. Noise. Fire. Nothing. It’s waiting.”

Mira narrowed her eyes. “No. It’s watching.”

Below them, the street was empty. All traders had been told to stay back from the eastern wall. Even the guards had taken up higher posts, just in case. The wind pushed faint trails of dust across the square — sunlight bouncing weakly off broken windows.

Then, movement.

One figure, walking alone down the Bazaar’s main walkway.

Mira straightened immediately. “Wait—”

Sophie cursed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It was Rumi.

No backup. No warning. No plan.

Just her — walking out of the front gate with a bat slung across her shoulders, head tilted like she was sizing up a stubborn chore.

Mira’s voice turned sharp. “Close the gate. Now.”

“She’s already past it,” Sophie hissed. “She’s not coming back.”

They both turned back toward the street.

The Goon was starting to move.

It was slow at first.

A tilt of the head. A grunt that carried through the street like a rusted engine coughing to life. Then the Goon wrapped its clawed fingers around the haft of the hammer and wrenched it from the ground with a guttural crack of torn stone.

It let the weapon rest on its shoulder.

Then it started forward.

Mira’s heart climbed into her throat. “She’s not ready for that. Not alone.”

Sophie’s fists clenched white around the railing. “She’s going to die.”

“She’s smarter than that.”

“She’s new.”

“She’s a pilgrim, she’s done things we haven’t.”

Mira’s voice was too calm. Too even. It was the tone of someone trying not to panic.

Down below, Rumi moved side to side, baiting distance. Light on her feet. Testing the rhythm.

The Goon answered with violence.

It swung.

The first blow was wide and deep — it hit an abandoned sedan and folded it in half like paper. The car alarm tried to scream but choked out after one desperate honk. Shrapnel showered the ground.

“She’s not fast enough,” Mira whispered. “Sophie—”

“Wait.”

The Goon swung again, this time low. Rumi dodged, just barely — the head of the hammer clipped her shoulder. She stumbled. Caught herself.

Mira flinched. “Shit. She’s hurt.”

Rumi backed up quickly, blinking away dust, blood seeping down her right arm.

The Goon didn’t stop.

It barreled forward, faster than it should’ve been able to — hammer dragging sparks against the pavement, ready to cleave the air in half.

Then Rumi moved.

Not away.

Forward.

“She’s closing distance—” Sophie started.

“Goddammit Rumi,” Mira said through clenched teeth. Why do I care so much?

The Goon swung one last time.

Rumi ducked beneath it — just barely. The hammer shattered the pavement behind her.

And then she rose — bat arcing up like a blur of motion and fury.

The hit landed just beneath the Goon’s jaw.

It reeled back, stunned.

The Goon snarled. Blood — thick, black, and tar-like — spilled from its cracked mouth.

Rumi was already moving again — fast and tight, dodging between its wide swings, landing quick hits to the knees, the neck, the exposed spine. Her bat cracked on each impact, wood flaking away.

One last swing — straight across the temple.

The Goon dropped.

Hammer first.

Then body.

The ground shook.

Silence.

Dust drifted slowly through the morning light. Sophie exhaled like she hadn’t been breathing for five whole minutes.

Mira said nothing.

Rumi stood still in the clearing, shoulders rising and falling fast. Blood smeared across her sleeve. Her left leg buckled slightly, but she didn’t fall.

She turned her head toward the Bazaar. Toward the watchtower.

Even from this height, Mira could see her smirk.

“Get the gate open,” Sophie said, already turning toward the ladder. “And get her a damn medic.”

Mira stayed frozen a moment longer — eyes locked on the girl below.

Then finally, she moved to follow.

A sour wind blew through the broken cars and crumbled storefronts near the east gate, carrying with it the sharp scent of blood and rot. The hammer lay a few feet from the beast’s body, half-sunk in the concrete, its handle cracked.

Bazaar guards had gathered near the gate now, murmuring, eyes wide — watching Rumi from behind the relative safety of barbed fences and UV bulbs.

She didn’t look at them.

Sophie stormed down the ladder from the east watchtower and hit the ground just as the gates were being cranked open. Mira followed, slower, quieter.

Rumi stepped once over the Goon’s corpse, wiped the blood off her bat on her sleeve, and kept walking — not toward the Bazaar, but past it. Toward the city.

“Rumi!” Sophie called out, stepping forward. “Hey—stop!”

She didn’t stop.

Mira narrowed her eyes.  “She’s reckless.”

They both watched as Rumi crossed into the fog-drenched street, turning north where the buildings thickened — toward the smoke trails and distant echo of infected somewhere past the playground.

Mira finally called after her. “You’re just going to keep going?”

That got a reaction — not a word, not a turn of the head — but Rumi raised one hand, palm up, and gave a casual wave behind her back. One flick of the fingers. Then lowered it. And was gone down the alley.

Sophie exhaled hard through her nose. “Unbelievable.”

“Did you give her a job?” Mira said.

“Yeah, for later. Not after she decided to fight a goon. I thought she would go through the other entrance like a normal runner.”

“I see,” Mira said, still watching the corner where Rumi had vanished.

Sophie crossed her arms, eyes dark. “At this point, it’s not even about the job. I try to assign someone to go with her but she ditches them.”

“She only goes alone,” Mira replied.

There was a pause between them.

Then Sophie said, quieter, “She’s going to get herself killed.”

Mira didn’t argue.

Because she thought the same thing.

Because she’d seen that look before — in the eyes of people who didn’t know what to do when they weren’t fighting. People who couldn’t stop moving. Couldn’t sit still. Because stillness meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant pain.

Sophie shook her head and walked back toward the gate, already barking orders to get the Goon’s corpse burned before nightfall.

Mira stayed at the edge of the wall for a while longer.

Looking out.

The dust hadn’t even settled.

But Rumi was already gone.

~

Rumi sat tied in a chair, looking up at a peacekeeper.

They demanded to know why she was in their territory.

“I’m just passing through,” she says. “Need access to the Central Loop. Heard this was the way.”

Aitor studies her a moment longer than feels comfortable. “We don’t give out access to strangers. Not when our commander’s corpse rots while his killer is running free.”

That word — corpse — hangs heavy in the air. Rumi’s eyes flick to the Peacekeepers moving in the background, their blue armbands flashing like shards of ice. Everyone here walks with the same posture — upright, armed, watching. Loyal.

But behind their order, she can feel it: fear. It smells metallic, sharp, the way blood does before a fight.

Aitor’s gaze sharpens. “Commander Lucas was murdered. The Bazaar people are our main suspects. You want to pass through our territory? Then earn it. Help us find who did it.”

Rumi exhales quietly. The Bazaar. She’d been there earlier — seen their children playing near makeshift stalls, the faces tired but kind. The trust she was building with them was fragile, but true. 

And now the Peacekeepers wanted her to hunt them down.

Always the same story, she thinks. Two sides fighting the same hunger, the same fear. Different banners, same blood.

Aloud, she says, “You’re accusing them without proof.”

Aitor’s jaw tightens. “We have reason to believe the killer came from that direction. Lucas’s insignia was cut from his body — his rank tattoo. Whoever did that knew what it meant. We can’t open the tunnels until we find the one responsible. You help us, and I’ll make sure you get to the Loop.”

He leans forward slightly, voice low, more personal. “You’ve seen how bad it is out there. Someone needs to bring order. The Peacekeepers can. But we can’t do that if we let murder slide. Bring us the Lazarus—Lucas’ weapon and we’ll get you through the loop.”

Rumi’s eyes lower to the map spread across the desk — lines and barricades dividing Villedor like scars.

Her fingers curl against the edge of the table.

Order, justice, survival — everyone dresses their war in prettier words.

“I’ll look into it,” she says finally, meeting Aitor’s gaze. “But I’m first in line for the Central Loop.”

Aitor gives a small, approving nod. “Good. I need results. The Bazaar won’t talk to us — maybe they’ll talk to you. Bring me something solid.”

He gestures to a guard. “Give her clearance through the checkpoint. And keep her under watch.”

As the conversation ends, Rumi steps back, heart heavy beneath the calm mask she wears. Outside, the evening sun bleeds across the rooftops — gold against the rust.

Between the Bazaar’s whispers of freedom and the Peacekeepers’ obsession with order. And Rumi, a simple pilgrim, stands in between — balancing on the razor’s edge of their war.

If I help one, I betray the other. But if I do nothing... everyone keeps dying.

She adjusts her weapon strap and walks toward the checkpoint, the setting sun catching her eyes.

Maybe there’s a way to help both?

Chapter Text

The streets are too quiet.

That kind of quiet that means everything dangerous is already listening.

Rumi presses herself against the cracked wall of a pharmacy, her breath misting in the cold air. With her, a mother crouches with her son — eight years old, trembling, too scared to cry.

The infected have been tracking them for blocks. The mother’s face is pale, streaked with soot; the boy clutches a stuffed rabbit missing one ear. They’re maybe two hundred meters from the Bazaar gates — so close they can see the faint torchlight on the walls.

But the volatiles are between them and safety.

Rumi scans the rooftops, the alley, and the horizon. Her pulse thrums in her ears.
She’s seen what happens if they freeze — hesitation means death.

“Listen to me,” she whispers, crouching beside the mother. “When I move, you don’t stop. Don’t hide, don’t look back. Go straight to the gates. They’ll open for you when they see the light.”

The mother’s lip trembles. “What about you?”

Rumi forces a grin — sharp and tired. “Someone’s gotta keep them busy.”

Before either can argue, she stands. She doesn’t take her bat. She takes a brick from the ground and hurls it into a car windshield across the street.

CRASH.

The sound cuts through the stillness like a blade.

A second later, the city wakes up screaming.

The volatiles pour out of the dark like liquid nightmares — skin glistening, jaws snapping, eyes burning like dying stars.

Rumi bolts down the street. The first screech rises, followed by another, and then another — until the air itself vibrates with them.

She doesn’t look back.

Every step is a prayer.

Every heartbeat, a drum against death.

She slides over a car hood, vaults a fence, knocks over trash cans to keep the noise coming. Anything that keeps them chasing her and not the family.

The ground trembles under their weight. She feels the wind of a claw swipe miss her shoulder by inches.

“Come on!” she shouts, voice cracking. “I’m right here!”

A volatile lunges from a rooftop — she ducks, rolls, comes up running. Pain flashes through her knee, but she keeps going. Always forward.

Behind her, an entire block explodes into chaos — windows shattering, alarms blaring, the infected frenzying after her.

She uses the noise to guide them away — cutting left towards Houndfield.

The streets echo with metal groans, screams, and crashes.

The city itself seems to wake and howl in answer.

~

Inside the walls of the Bazaar, people bolt upright from sleep. Traders, guards, scavengers — all drawn to the sound rolling across the ruins.

“What the hell is that?” Someone whispers.

From the ramparts, a guard looks out through his scope. The night beyond burns with movement — faint flashes of running figures, shadows slashing through the dark.

“Volatiles,” he breathes. “A whole swarm of them…”

Another guard frowns. “But where are they going?”

Then he sees it — a single figure sprinting ahead of the horde. A lone human shape, zigzagging through the ruins, every monster in the district chasing her.

No weapon drawn.

No backup.

Just raw, impossible motion.

The guard grips the railing so tight his knuckles whiten. “She’s leading them away from us,” he says quietly.

Down below, the Bazaar’s main gate opens slightly. The mother and her boy stumble in — shaking, sobbing, barely able to speak.

“She—she said to run,” the mother gasps. “She told us not to stop.”

But she can’t finish. The gate slams shut behind them, and the city outside erupts again in an orchestra of chaos — shrieks, crashes, breaking glass, metal ripping apart.

The boy buries his face in his mother’s chest, clutching his stuffed rabbit tight.

The noise arrives first — distant, chaotic, alive.

Mira stops halfway through the courtyard, head snapping toward the sound. People are rushing to the walls, clutching lanterns and weapons, whispering nervously.

“What’s happening?” Mira asks a guard stationed by the gate.

He shakes his head. “Something’s got the infected stirred up. Whole district’s howling.”

Then a child’s voice breaks through the tension. “It was her! The lady with the purple hair!”

Mira turns.

The boy — small, shaking, clutching a stuffed rabbit — stands beside his mother, eyes wide.

“The one who told us to run!” He blurts. “She stayed behind. The monsters— they were chasing her!”

Mira kneels, her stomach sinking. “You saw her?”

The boy nods hard. “She said she’d make them follow her.”

The mother adds quietly, “She saved us. She didn’t even tell us her name.”

Mira’s throat goes dry. She doesn’t need a name. The description is enough.
Hooded jacket, worn boots, purple hair.

Running alone in the dark.

It has to be her.

“Rumi…” Mira whispers.

~

Rumi ducks into a narrow corridor between two crumbling towers, the sound of pursuit echoing behind her.

She’s long past exhaustion now. She’s bleeding from her forearm, and her lungs are tearing at her ribs. But the thought of the Bazaar pushes her forward.

If she slows, even for a second, the infected might double back. If they double back, they’ll find the people she saved.

She can’t let that happen.

She slides over a broken sign, vaults a stair rail, and starts running on the rooftops.

Her body moves like instinct, pure muscle memory.

“Keep moving,” she mutters. “Just keep them looking at you.”

A volatile lunges — she kicks it back, grabs a shard of glass, and stabs it through the jaw. The creature falls to the street, shrieking.

Another takes its place. She bolts again.

~

Nobody sleeps inside the Bazaar.

The guards on the wall stand rigid, watching the far horizon where the city burns in small, moving fires.

Every few minutes, another distant crash echoes — a sound of something still fighting, still alive.

The mother sits near the gate with her son asleep in her arms, rocking him gently. The boy stirs and murmurs in his sleep. “Is she coming back?”

She doesn’t answer.

But in her heart, she can still hear the chaos — still hear someone out there running, shouting, keeping the monsters away.

Mira stands at the top of the battlements, eyes sweeping the horizon. Watching as more and more zombies start to head away from the gates.

~

By the time the first rays of sunlight hit the Bazaar walls, the city is silent again.

Inside the Bazaar, life stirs slow and careful — as if no one dares believe the night is really over.

People gather in the courtyard near the fountain, whispering. Some clutch weapons. Others just watch the walls, waiting for a miracle they don’t quite expect.

Sophie stands with her arms folded, jaw set. Mira’s beside her, pale from sleeplessness, eyes fixed on the gate.

The mother from the night before kneels nearby with her son, brushing dust from his hair as he clings to his stuffed rabbit.

They’ve all been waiting for the same thing — though no one says it out loud.

~

The streets that had roared with monsters only hours ago were now hollow, smeared with ash and sunlight. She walked through them one slow step at a time, dragging her feet more than lifting them. Her throat was dry; her pulse was a dull ache behind her ears. The blood on her sleeve had already gone dark.

Every few minutes she’d stop and listen, just to be sure nothing was following. Nothing ever was. The city had gone still, at least this side of the city. Rumi knew that she’d left quite the horde on the other side of the city.

Her shadow stretched thin across the cracked pavement as the sun slid past noon. She didn’t know exactly how far the Bazaar was, but she could see the tower spires now, their iron silhouettes glinting against the haze.

That was enough.

She pressed on.

When she reached the gates, she didn’t knock right away. She stood there, blinking against the sunlight, trying to gather the strength to say something. Her voice felt like sand in her throat.

The guards above the wall were half asleep, their helmets off, talking quietly about rations. One of them caught sight of the movement below and leaned forward. For a moment he froze, then shouted something she didn’t catch.

A heartbeat later, the gate began to creak open.

The air inside the Bazaar was thick with smoke and the smell of cooking stew. People stopped what they were doing as she stepped through. A pot lid clattered somewhere, then silence rolled through the courtyard.

Every face turned toward her — disbelief first, then something deeper, something that rippled like a wave through the gathered crowd.

Rumi stopped in the middle of the open square. She could feel the stares, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her chest hurt too much. Her knees trembled from the weight of her pack. She’d been running, climbing, fighting for so long that stillness itself felt unnatural.

Someone dropped a crate. The sound snapped the tension in half.

“Pilgrim?”

The voice was small, uncertain.

She looked up.

The mother was there, the one from the alley, standing at the edge of the crowd with her son clutched against her side. The boy broke free before she could stop him. He ran across the square, his stuffed rabbit bouncing in one hand, and threw himself at her.

“You came back!”

Rumi caught him instinctively, wincing as his small arms locked around her waist. She managed a weak laugh, her voice cracked and low. “Yeah,” she said. “Took the long way.”

The mother was crying before she reached them. She didn’t speak — just took her son’s shoulders and mouthed a ‘thank-you’ over and over again.

Rumi smiled, faintly, tired. “You made it. That’s what matters.”

When she lifted her head again, Mira was standing nearby. She looked different in daylight — smaller somehow, though her expression was anything but.

Rumi simply smiled awkwardly at her.

For a long time, neither of them said a word. Then Mira crossed the space between them in three sharp steps and wrapped her arms around her.

The sudden pressure made Rumi’s ribs flare in protest, but she didn’t care. She pressed her face into Mira’s shoulder, eyes closing against the sting there.

“I knew you’d make it back,” Mira whispered, her voice trembling. “I knew you were too stubborn to die.”

Rumi’s laugh came out half a sob. “Guess that’s my thing now.”

When they finally pulled apart, Rumi noticed Sophie leaning against a wall, watching her with her arms crossed. The woman’s expression was unreadable — equal parts relief and reprimand.

Sophie gave a small nod. “You scared the hell out of everyone.”

Rumi smiled faintly. “Sorry, but that might be a habit.”

The noise of the Bazaar slowly returned — footsteps, chatter, the rattle of pots and tools. Life resumed, but lighter now. The weight that had been pressing down since dawn had lifted.

Rumi sat down by the gate, her legs barely cooperating, and let the boy’s rabbit sit on her knee while he played nearby. Mira stayed close, sitting beside her in silence. Every so often their shoulders brushed, and that was enough.

No speeches. No questions. Just the sound of water trickling and the afternoon wind moving softly through the hanging fabrics above.

After a while, Mira spoke again, her tone quiet, almost gentle. “Next time you try something like that, I’m chaining you to the gate.”

Rumi leaned back, head against the stone, eyes half-closed. “Next time, you’ll probably help me do it.”

Mira huffed, but she didn’t argue.

The sunlight shifted across the square, catching the gold threads in the flags overhead. The boy laughed. Somewhere, someone began to play a soft tune on a broken radio.

And for the first time in a long while, Rumi let herself breathe — slow and deep and real.

The city was still dangerous, the night would always come back, but for now, in this one thin slice of daylight, she’d done enough.

She’d run far, fought hard, and brought the light with her.

~

The Bazaar was quieter after dark.

Not peaceful — nothing in Villedor was ever truly peaceful — but the kind of quiet that slipped between footsteps, between voices, between the flickers of UV lamps strung like desperate halos above doorways.

Rumi sat alone on the upper balcony, legs tucked beneath her, fingers idly rolling a broken zip tie between her thumb and forefinger. The air smelled like roasted meat, old shoes, and disinfectant. Someone was singing softly on the lower floor. A lullaby, maybe. Or a prayer.

She didn’t want to go back to her room yet.
Didn’t want to sleep.
Didn’t want to dream.

Her bio-marker pulsed gently on her wrist.

Stable. For now.

It was getting easier to forget it was there — until it wasn’t.

She’d been here almost three weeks. The Bazaar. The “community.”

They let her sleep in a bed above the market after saving the mother and child. It stank of oil and sweat, but it was better than the streets. She ran errands. Fetched parts. Cleared out Dark Hollows no one else wanted to risk. Helped fix a water purifier with a cracked tank and carried buckets for an old woman with one eye and a sharper tongue than most knives.

She wasn’t trusted. Not really. But she was tolerated. And that was enough.

For now.

She was only here for her sister.

She asked everyone—Sophie, Maya, even the knife guy who traded comics—but no one knew Mia.

So she climbed, killed, ran, and mapped the streets for herself.

She didn’t know where Mia had gone — just that she’d passed through Villedor. Before the Fall, maybe after. The stories changed by the day. Some said no one ever left the city. Others said Mia was already dead. Rumi didn’t listen.

‘She’s here,’ she whispered. ‘She has to be.’”

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, letting her chin fall into her hands. Her eyes felt heavy, but she wouldn’t sleep. Not yet.

Mira had asked her once — over the radio, in that cool, careful voice — “Why are you always the one volunteering? Why do you always take the worst jobs?”

Rumi hadn’t answered then.

But sitting here now, watching strangers pass below her like ghosts under UV light, she knew the truth.

It wasn’t just about Mia anymore.

If someone had to bleed, Rumi would take the hit.

It meant something that way. 

Maybe enough to forgive herself. Maybe enough for Mia to forgive her too.

She closed her eyes and listened to the lullaby.

Someone sang about the moon.
Someone sang about home.

She didn’t remember the words.

But she remembered the sound of her sister humming, a long time ago, before everything went dark.

~

The red light on the radio pulsed steady. Mira sat cross-legged on the rooftop, her coat pulled tight around her. One of her knives was in her lap, turning slow circles between her fingers, catching the UV lamp’s soft flicker.

She let the silence stretch a little. Not because she didn’t know what to say — but because this is how she liked to talk to Zoey. The slow way. Like they were sitting on opposite ends of the city, sharing breath instead of words.

Finally, she spoke.

“I know you’re probably underground again. Or in the Loop, chasing someone else’s problem like it’s your own. No pressure or anything, but your radio’s been quiet for four days.”

The wind nudged her hair across her face. She didn’t brush it back.

“So I thought I’d just talk for a while. In case you’re still listening.”

She glanced down at the street below. Bazaar guards shifting at their posts. No signs of infected. Just the hum of a tired city still pretending it can heal.

“You asked about Rumi. That Pilgrim I mentioned.”

“She’s still alive. Somehow.”

“The other day she picked a fight in a dark hollow. She went during the day, claimed she hated running around at night. She got a music box for some little girl.”

Mira paused, smiling faintly despite herself.

“You’d like her.”

“She’s… rough around the edges. But not the kind that wants to be. It’s like she’s constantly one breath away from running — like stillness is dangerous for her. Like she thinks if she slows down, the world’ll catch up and tear her apart.”

“You know the type.”

Her thumb ran along the edge of the knife — not hard enough to draw blood, just enough to feel its weight.

“She’s looking for someone. Told me about her sister Mia. Her eyes are always scanning rooftops, half-listening when kids talk too fast. Like she’s hoping they’ll mention her name.”

She leaned back against the wall behind her, the stone cold against her spine.

“Anyway. She came back from a Metro station two nights ago — bleeding, again. I asked her if it was worth it. She said, ‘No. But someone had to do it.’”

“That’s your line, Zo.”

Her voice cracked a little. She laughed it off.

“Rumi’s stubborn. She's got that same heat in her, that refusal to break even when it’d be easier.”

“It’s exhausting.”

A pause.

“But it’s good. It’s good that someone like that is still out there. Still trying.”

“And maybe it's selfish, but… when she comes back in one piece, it makes me feel like you might come back too.”

She tapped the edge of the radio with her knuckle. The red light blinked, waiting.

“She doesn’t know I talk about her. I think it’d embarrass her, honestly. She’s got that lone wolf thing going on — all sharp glances and unfinished sentences. But under it, there’s a heart.”

“Big one.”

“She hides it, but I see it.”

“It’s the kind of heart that breaks loud if you’re not careful.”

Another gust of wind moved through the rooftop, rustling the tarp strung overhead. Mira pulled her coat tighter.

“You’d like her,” she said again, softer now. “She reminds me of you. Not because she’s like you… but because I think she could be what you used to be, before the weight got too heavy.”

“Or maybe I’m just missing you. And projecting. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She reached out and thumbed the radio off.

Downstairs, the Bazaar bustled with low conversation and the sound of pots clanking in the kitchen. The world kept turning. Slowly. Bruised, but alive.

Mira stayed where she was.

Waiting.

Talking into silence.

~

Zoey slipped through the rusted hatch with the ease of routine. She didn’t announce herself — didn’t need to. The roof creaked beneath her boots exactly once before a voice drifted from the far end of the rooftop.

“Took you long enough.”

Mira sat against the crumbling ledge, a small stove hissing quietly beside her. A chipped mug rested in her hands, fingers wrapped tight around it like she’d never let it go.

“I stopped to help a runner on the way back,” Zoey said, brushing a smear of dried blood off her temple. “Kid thought he could outrun a Revenant with duct tape on his shoes.”

Mira didn’t look at her. Not right away. Just nodded once and gestured to the space beside her.

“Still alive, then.”

Zoey crossed the rooftop in a few strides and sank down beside her. The city stretched out below — dim lights, UV wires like veins across old buildings, the slow churn of smoke from the generator stacks. It smelled like rust, sweat, and wet concrete.

Home.

“For now,” Zoey muttered. She leaned back, arms stretched behind her, shoulders tight from three days of climbing, crawling, and not enough food. “It was uglier than I thought out there. The tunnels are worse. Half-collapsed and crawling with biters.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Zoey glanced at her arm. “It’s shallow.”

Mira didn’t argue. She just reached for the med kit tucked under her coat. "Off."

Zoey sighed, but pulled back her sleeve without protest. “You always this bossy when I come home?”

Mira finally looked at her, eyes dark and steady in the glow of the UV lamp above them. “Only when you look like hell.”

She cleaned the cut in silence. Gentle. Efficient. Her fingers knew the map of Zoey’s body better than Zoey did — every old scar, every fresh wound. When she was done, she taped the gauze down and rested her hand over it, just for a second longer than necessary.

Zoey didn’t pull away.

“You kept the fire going,” Zoey said softly, nodding toward the little stove.

“I always do.”

“And the radio?”

Mira lifted an eyebrow. “You mean the one you ignored for thirty-six hours?”

“I had to stay quiet. The GRE tunnel was hot.”

Mira shrugged, but her thumb tapped once against her mug. “You don’t have to explain. You came back. That’s what matters.”

Zoey studied her, tired but not too tired to notice the circles under Mira’s eyes. The slight hollow in her cheeks. The way she always wore that old coat — the one Zoey had stitched up after it got torn on barbed wire near Trinity.

“You sleep at all?” Zoey asked.

“Not really,” Mira said. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

Zoey’s heart stuttered at that.

The world broke around them, again and again. But Mira stayed. Held the line. Kept the lights on. Waited without asking. And Zoey — no matter how far she ran, how long the mission — always found her way back.

Because Mira wasn’t just a checkpoint.

She was the center.

Zoey shifted closer, shoulder brushing Mira’s. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said. Quiet, but true.

“Not tonight?”

“Not for a while.”

Mira handed her the second mug without a word. The tea was bitter, but warm. Zoey drank.

Below them, the Bazaar murmured in its sleep. And up here — above the chaos, above the bite and break of survival — they let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

Together.

Chapter Text

Rumi perched on the catwalk, the wind tugging at her sleeves, the metal beneath her feet groaning in protest. Below, the crowd waited, tense and restless, their eyes flicking between each other like wary animals.

The Peacekeepers in disciplined lines, polished helmets glinting in the sun, whispered orders and tapped radios on one rooftop.

The Survivors clustered around makeshift barricades, armed with pipes, bats, and whatever scavenged weapons they had, faces tight with hope and exhaustion on another roof.

And somewhere in the crowd, barely visible, Mira stood. Silent. Watchful. Not stepping forward, not shouting, and just studying the way the lines shifted like tides. Rumi knew Mira was waiting for the outcome as much as anyone, but without choosing — her neutrality mirroring Rumi’s own.

Rumi rested her hand on the tower console, feeling the chill of rust and old metal under her palm. The only water tower in the city and everyone wanted control of it.

Now, she had to decide.

The Peacekeepers had promised her first in line to the Central Loop. Her sister’s voice looped in her mind. The thought weighed heavily, a temptation almost irresistible.

But the Survivors… they had come to trust her over weeks of chaos. The Bazaar who had treated her with suspicion at first now looked to her for guidance. And somewhere in the crowd, she could see the mother clutching her child — the one she had saved — waiting quietly, hope flickering in her eyes.

The radio buzzed. Sophie’s voice cut through the noise, tense but steady:

“Rumi. They’re getting impatient down here. You have to choose.”

Rumi swallowed hard, eyes scanning the area. She felt the pressure in her chest, the weight of responsibility pressing down like the steel beams around her. Both sides had people ready to claim the tower — people who would fight if necessary.

Her hand hovered over the valve, hesitating.

The Peacekeepers shouted from below, confident, disciplined.

The Survivors’ murmurs rose into her ears over the shouts, their anticipation palpable. Some glanced toward her, trust shining in their dirt-streaked faces.

Rumi’s fingers clenched the console. Memories of that boy and his mother surged up — the faces she couldn’t forget, the lives she had touched by choosing compassion over convenience.

She took a deep breath.

“It’s yours,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

And then, steadying the radio:

“Sophie. Tell everyone — the water tower’s yours. Get your people up here.”

The valve hissed, the pressure roaring as water burst free in shining arcs, cascading down toward the Survivors. Shouts and cheers erupted below as they scrambled to secure the facility. The Peacekeepers froze for a moment, their orders rendered meaningless by the sudden surge of flow, then muttered curses and stepped back.

Rumi exhaled, her shoulders sagging with relief and exhaustion.

From the edge of the crowd, Mira’s eyes met hers. A small nod passed between them — silent acknowledgment, no judgement. Two people who had walked the line between sides, and still chose what they could.

Rumi slung her pack over her shoulder, looking down at the chaos she had unleashed. The tower belonged to the Survivors now. She had made her choice.

~

Rumi didn’t climb down right away.

The crowds below were dissolving into noise — laughter, relief, disbelief. The Survivors were cheering, shouting her name maybe, but she couldn’t make out the words anymore. Up here, the sound didn’t carry the same way. It rose thin and distant, as if it belonged to another city entirely.

She sat down on the steel grating, letting her legs dangle over the edge. The wind moved through the lattice of pipes and valves, a low, hollow sigh that almost sounded alive. The metal still vibrated faintly from the pressure release, humming under her palms. Every few seconds, the structure groaned — a deep, tired sound that matched the ache in her chest.

The city stretched out beneath her like an ocean of ruin and smoke. The sunlight caught on broken glass and puddles, flashing in scattered bursts. Somewhere out there, she knew her sister was still alive — or she had to believe she was. She tried to picture Mia’s face, but the memory wouldn’t stay still. It kept shifting — smiles flickering into screams, light into ash.

She pressed a hand to her brow, breathing out slow. The adrenaline had finally worn off, leaving her hollow. The silence was too clean, too big. She could feel the weight of every heartbeat in her ribs.

Down below, the Survivors were already moving — organizing, securing the area, shouting orders with the frantic energy of people who suddenly had something to lose again. The Peacekeepers had retreated, but not far enough. They’d regroup. They always did.

Rumi tilted her head back and watched the sky. Clouds were forming — thick, gray, bruised with storm. The kind that promised rain or worse.

For the first time in days, she wasn’t moving.

And it terrified her.

Her body didn’t understand stillness anymore. Every muscle wanted to go — climb, run, swing, fight. Her fingers twitched unconsciously toward her bat before she forced them flat against the metal floor.

She thought of Mira — that quiet nod across the square. No words, just understanding. Maybe that was what trust looked like now. Not promises. Not safety. Just people who didn’t look away when the blood started drying.

The wind picked up. It tugged at her hood, at the loose threads on her sleeve. Somewhere below, a generator kicked on, sputtered, and died. Then the quiet returned — pure and complete.

Rumi closed her eyes. For a few breaths, she let herself pretend the quiet meant peace. She imagined her sister beside her, laughing softly at how high they’d climbed, how the city looked smaller from here. She imagined warmth. Safety. A world that didn’t need survivors or sides.

“Just for a minute,” she murmured, voice slurred, the words fading into the hum of the wind.

She pulled the tarp closer around her shoulders and let herself sink into the stillness.

The air cooled. The metal beneath her body radiated the day’s leftover heat. The city below breathed slow — distant sirens, the clatter of a door, and the faint sound of laughter that didn’t quite sound real.

In her half-dreams, she saw Mia again — small hands clutching a railing, light in her hair, a voice calling her name through the dark. But when Rumi turned toward her, the image dissolved into smoke.

A cold gust woke her.

The sky had deepened into a dark, oily blue. The last of the sun was gone, and the city’s night lamps had begun their flickering stutter across the skyline. She sat up slowly, her breath fogging in the chill.

Her back ached. Her limbs were stiff. But she was still alive.

Still here.

Below, the streets looked empty again — like nothing had ever happened. But she knew better. The world was already resetting, waiting for the next fight to start.

She brushed the dust off her jacket, slung her pack over one shoulder, and climbed to her feet. The lights of the Bazaar shimmered faintly in the distance — fragile, defiant.

She stood at the tower’s edge for one more heartbeat, looking down at the water now flowing into the canals.

“Sleep’s over,” she muttered. “Back to work.”

Then she turned, disappearing into the shadows of the ladder, descending rung by rung into the waiting dark.

~

Alberto’s workshop reeked of fuel and sweat. Every surface was buried under half-built gadgets and tools that hadn’t been cleaned. The hum of a generator filled the cramped space, cutting in and out like a nervous heartbeat.

“It’s easy as pie!” Alberto beamed, handing her a satchel. “Just plant these, and the windmill goes boom!”

Rumi raised an eyebrow. “You realize pies don’t explode, right?”

He didn’t hear her. He was already elbow-deep in wiring. She sighed, taking the satchels and strapping them into her pack. The fabric felt heavy — heavier than it should. She didn’t like how warm the bombs were to the touch.

Easy as pie.

She repeated it under her breath as she climbed into the night.

~

The Peacekeeper fortress loomed ahead like a metal beast, its spinning blades frozen in the moonlight. Guards patrolled the lower decks with flashlights and rifles. The upper level, where the motor core hummed, was where she needed to be.

Rumi crouched in the dark, the air damp with mist. Every sound mattered — the scrape of a boot, the hum of a generator, the creak of a ladder. She moved like a ghost, careful, controlled. The city below was silent except for the distant groan of the windmill’s blades.

She climbed.

Every rung bit into her palms. Her knees trembled, not from fear but fatigue — too many nights without real sleep. She reached the top, crouched near the spinning rotors, and started planting the charges. The wind pressed her hood flat against her head. Sparks jumped from the old wiring.

She secured the last satchel, checked the timer, and then whispered, “Done.”

When she returned to the workshop, Alberto was waiting. The older man’s hands trembled as he held the detonator. “Would you like the honors?”

She thought of her first meeting with him, Bazaarians mocking him and his son defending him, Rumi shook her head. “You do it. You earned this.”

He smiled — wide, proud — and pressed the button.

Nothing.

A long silence. Then a second press.

Still nothing.

“Uh… interference!” Alberto said quickly, smacking the side of the transmitter.

Then — a boom that shook the ground.

They ran outside. The windmill stood intact, flames licking one side, but still upright.

“Doesn’t look like it did much,” Rumi muttered.

“Here!” Alberto thrust another satchel into her hands. “It’s still primed! Get it on the rotor — quick! Oh and it can blow any minute!”

“What?!” Rumi blinked. “Alberto, that’s suicide!”

He waved her off. “You can climb faster!”

“Unbelievable,” she hissed, grabbing the bag anyway.

She sprinted back into the fortress. Her boots hammered the stairs, lungs burning. The sound of ticking filled her head — or maybe it was her heartbeat. The windmill loomed above, blades cutting through mist like giant knives.

She reached the top, strapped the bomb to the rotor, and froze when it started beeping faster.

“Shit.”

She dove for the nearest zipline and jumped — the cable snapped halfway down.

The fall punched the air from her chest. She hit the water hard, cold rushing into her bones.

Then the explosion tore the night open.

Flame and debris rained across the square. She surfaced, gasping, spitting black water. The windmill burned above her, a collapsing skeleton of fire and steel.

She swam to shore, shivering and coughing.

~

The Bazaar used to be loud during the day. Now it groaned under floodlights and the heavy boots of Peacekeepers.

They’d taken control hours ago. Claimed they were protecting order. But order looked a lot like power when it held a weapon to your face.

It seems they didn’t recognize that the Bazaar held the water tower in high regard. Nor did they appreciate their windmill being blown to smithereens.

Mira sat with her wrists zip-tied behind her, propped against one of the support beams on the upper deck. Blood had dried at her temple. Her coat was torn. But her back was straight. Eyes alert.

Zoey knelt beside her, one shoulder dislocated, lips cracked from dehydration. She hadn’t said much in the last few hours, but Mira could feel her coiled tension — like a match waiting to strike.

Below them, on the main floor of the Bazaar, a Peacekeeper captain strutted between stacks of confiscated supplies and terrified civilians. A few dozen hostages were huddled in the marketplace center — shopkeepers, runners, and a few of the younger fighters who hadn’t been executed when the rebellion plan was exposed.

“Five minutes,” the captain barked. “Then we make an example. Start with the blacksmith.”

A murmur of panic rippled through the crowd.

“End of the line?” Zoey murmured.

“No,” Mira cracked a smirk. “Rumi wasn’t captured. Sophie alerted her before we all got captured.”

“You have no jurisdiction here!” someone shouted. One of the old traders. Desperate.

The Peacekeeper captain just laughed and raised her weapon.

From the shadows of the western entrance, a silhouette emerged.

Rumi.

Hood soaked. Shirt torn at the shoulder. A baseball bat that had an unnatural tint to it was slung over one shoulder, still wet with blood from the last fight she’d crawled out of. She had added barbed wire to it, the weapon being customized for human combatants.

There were bruises down her forearm. Her knuckles were raw.

She walked slowly, carefully.

But her eyes burned.

And that was enough to make the Peacekeepers tense.

Zoey took the chance to untie Mira, they wouldn’t fight. They couldn’t. None of them could.

The fate of the bazaar…

Was all on Rumi.

~

The first came in fast. He moved like he thought this would end in thirty seconds.

Rumi dipped under his arm and slammed the bat into the side of his knee. The metal wire tore through the joint — the sound of cracking bone sharp and awful.

He went down screaming.

The second was already in motion. She parried his baton with the bat, sparks flying. He went for a backhand swing — too wide — and she drove the end of the bat into his gut, following up with a brutal upward strike to the chin.

He stumbled back. Didn’t rise again.

The third clipped her, caught her ribs with a baton. Pain exploded behind her eyes.

Rumi gritted her teeth, turned into the strike, and jammed her shoulder into his throat, toppling him backward. He hit the ground hard, she followed with one last hit to the head.

The fourth and fifth moved together, trained. Coordinated.

They circled.

Rumi’s breath came shallow. She adjusted her grip on the bat, now slick with rain and blood. Her arms were screaming. Her side burned.

The fourth jabbed with a knife. She caught his wrist, twisted hard, and snapped his forearm against her knee. He shrieked and dropped the blade.

The fifth — the biggest — came straight at her. Grabbed the bat mid-swing.

Rumi held tight. They locked. Straining. His boot stomped down on her foot. Her knees buckled.

He started to force her down — until she let go with one hand, raked her fingers across his eyes, and head butted him once, twice, a third time until he dropped to his knees.

Then she picked the bat back up —

And brought it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

He didn't get back up.

Everyone from the Bazaar watched in silent awe, Rumi had just demolished the peacekeeper squad.

She stepped forward, but was interrupted by another squad.

“Rumi!” A feminine voice yelled out, echoing through the Bazaar. “Rumi! You coward!”

“You better get out of here Anderson.” Rumi stepped forward. “Tell Aitor to call it off, your windmill is gone.”

“Now why would I do that,” Anderson stepped forward. Slowly. “”When I can finally get rid of you.”

Rumi scowled and quickly threw two knives into the men beside Anderson.

“What are you…” she said.

“I told you,” Rumi said, her voice frayed and cold. “I’m a pilgrim.”

Anderson raised her katana.

Rumi raised the bat.

Anderson was fast — precise — trying to land any hit to Rumi’s body.

But Rumi — she moved like water, fluid and adaptable.

She took the hits. Blocked with her forearms that had decent armor that withstood the sword. Anderson caught Rumi on her upper arm, the katana leaving a shallow but lengthy cut. Rumi kicked Anderson in the ribs. Then kicked her legs out from under her.

And then — swung the bat full-force across Anderson’s jaw.

A sickening crack.

Anderson hit the ground — hard — and stayed there.

The remaining Peacekeepers dropped their weapons. Some ran.

Then one of the prisoners stood.

Then another.

A cry went up. A voice, raw and desperate: “She did it!”

Rumi smiled to herself, then limped over to where the prisoners were gathered. Sophie met her halfway, Barney trailing behind her.

“The Bazaar is ours again!” she shouted.

A roar rose like thunder through the old walls.

“Rumi,” Sophie started softly, a little hesitantly. “The peacekeepers are in the metro tunnels. We can’t get into the Central Loop through there. I promise though, I will get you to the Central Loop.”

“Yeah, Rumi,” Barney walked over. “You’re one of us now, sister. We take care of our own.”

Rumi took a breath and started limping away from everyone. The Bazaar was theirs again, the Survivors cheering, the Peacekeepers retreating. The city felt alive with reclaimed hope.

But she didn’t smile. Somewhere deep in her chest, a quiet ache pulsed — the Central Loop was closed. Her sister’s face flickered in her mind, and for the first time in weeks, Rumi felt the sharp sting of the choice she’d made.

Alone in a shadowed corner, hidden from view, she braced her hands against the wall, chest heaving. Tears threatened, unbidden. The weight of what she had protected, and what she had lost, pressed down like steel. And yet, even in that silence, there was a small, stubborn pulse of something else — resolve. She had chosen the many over the one, trust over blood, and survival over reunion.

Chapter Text

The Bazaar buzzed with muted activity, traders moving cautiously between makeshift stalls and barricades. Rain streaked the broken glass of the upper walkways, giving the whole place a slick, dangerous gleam. Mira leaned against a beam, her arms crossed, and eyes scanning the crowd with practiced caution.

“Hey,” she called softly, gesturing toward a narrow alley. “You two need to meet.”

Rumi stepped forward, hood low, eyes wary.

Zoey emerged from behind a stack of crates, her crossbow hanging loosely at her hip, but her stance relaxed as she spotted Mira. There was a small smile, almost shy, that softened her otherwise sharp features. Mira had clearly seen that before.

“Mira’s told me about you,” Zoey said, nodding to Rumi. “Heard you help where you can. I’m Zoey.” Her voice was cautious, probing, but not hostile.

“Rumi,” she replied, keeping her tone even. “Glad to meet you.”

Mira’s grin was subtle but unmistakable. “She’s good. You’ll see.” She leaned closer to Zoey, whispering just enough for Rumi to catch, “Don’t bite her too hard. She’s new to this whole ‘trusting strangers’ thing.”

Zoey’s lips twitched, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Noted.”

Rumi felt the shift in the air — the small, unspoken connection between Zoey and Mira, a tether that gave Zoey a confidence she didn’t carry otherwise. It was human, real, and somehow grounding in the chaos around them.

A sudden crackle from Rumi’s radio cut through the moment. Static hissed before a voice came through, clipped and urgent but words were cut.

“Dynamo Car Factor… boss wants…Wa—”

Rumi’s eyes flicked to Mira, then Zoey. “I need to move. Now.

Zoey’s gaze sharpened. “Wait — who are you looking for?”

Rumi hesitated, then went with the easiest truth. “My sister—Mia. I’ve patched into the renegade frequency.”

Then Rumi was gone.

“Mia?” Zoey asked. “Is there a bigger story to that?”

“Yeah,” Mira’s eyes darkened. “They were like you, experimented on by Waltz. She’s looking for him to find Mia.”

Zoey froze, the name slicing through her like a knife. “Waltz?” Her pulse quickened. “Waltz? Mira, he’s dangerous!”

Before Mira could respond, Zoey was already moving, her coat flaring behind her as she sprinted after Rumi. “Wait! I’m coming with you!”

Mira let her go, silent and still, her eyes following Zoey as she vanished down the street. A shadow of worry flickered across Mira’s face, but she said nothing. Some pursuits, she knew, had to be faced alone.

She started heading towards the Central Loop.

~

 Rumi had fought through countless Renegades, but nothing could have prepared her for him. Waltz was a storm wrapped in flesh—tearing through the Peacekeepers like paper, his strength unnatural, his eyes alight with something far worse than rage. He had taken her GRE Key, her last link to the truth, and now she was cornered in the ruins of the Car Factory, her vision swimming after his brutal headbutt.

The man who had experimented on her—whose hands had once bound her to cold tables and burning syringes—now had his fingers wrapped around her throat.

“What have… you done to Mia…?” Rumi rasped, her boots scraping for footing.

“Mia?” His voice faltered for a breath. Then his grip slackened. “...Rumi? You’re alive?”

A sharp thunk cut through the air—then another. Two crossbow bolts lodged deep into his shoulder. Waltz let out a guttural snarl.

“Rumi! Run!” Zoey’s voice rang from behind, breathless and fierce. She sprinted forward, grabbing Rumi under the arm.

“Wait—” Rumi coughed, spotting the GRE Key half-buried in dust. She lunged for it.

“No! We have to go—NOW!”

Waltz’s body twitched, his muscles spasming. The low, animalistic rumble rising from his chest built into a piercing screech that rattled the metal rafters. His eyes flashed like those of a Viral.

“RUN!”

~

The chase began in chaos.

Rumi stumbled after Zoey, lungs burning, her head pounding from the hit. Behind them, Waltz’s screech echoed through the cavernous factory—too close, too inhuman. The heavy clang of his footsteps shook the grates beneath their feet.

They darted between derelict trains, leaping over rusted couplings, ducking low as sparks showered from overhead wires. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of blood. Every time Rumi glanced back, a flicker of movement—too fast to be real—streaked across the shadows.

“Keep moving!” Zoey shouted. “He’s right behind us!”

They burst into an adjoining tunnel, the fluorescent lights flickering like dying stars. Waltz’s scream followed, warping through the echo, chasing them in all directions at once. Rumi’s boots splashed through puddles of stagnant water, her reflection breaking apart in ripples of panic.

Ahead, Zoey dropped small red flares—her path marked by tiny suns in the dark. The smoke coiled upward, painting the walls crimson, guiding Rumi like breadcrumbs through a nightmare.

“Shit!” Rumi gasped, her voice cracking. “He’s getting closer!”

A shadow leapt across the tunnel wall—Waltz had climbed onto the ceiling beams, his movement jerky but fast, almost like a volatile.

Rumi’s heart crashed against her ribs. She dove forward just as he dropped, landing behind her with a boom that shook the tunnel.

She didn’t look back.

They sprinted through the narrowing passage, the concrete trembling under the viral’s roars. Rumi jumped down a maintenance shaft, the fall broken by a mound of garbage bags. Pain shot up her legs as she hit, but she rolled, gasping, forcing herself to move.

“Rumi!” Zoey called. “You good?”

Rumi coughed hard, gripping the GRE Key tight. “Go! I’m right behind you!”

She clambered to her feet and bolted down another passage. The tunnels twisted and forked, some crawling with infected drawn by the noise. Groaning shapes turned toward her, but Rumi barely slowed—slashing through one, vaulting over another. Her vision blurred from exhaustion and fear.

Behind her, Waltz’s roar split the dark again.

Rumi’s lungs burned.

The tunnel opened ahead—into a vast maintenance shaft. A deep chasm split the floor in two, plunging down into darkness. A few rusted pipes spanned the gap, but none looked stable.

“Zoey, wait! There’s—”

Zoey didn’t let her hesitate. “Rumi! Jump!”

Rumi didn’t think. She ran.

Her legs burned as she built speed, the roar behind her growing louder, closer—she could feel Waltz’s breath on her neck as she launched herself off the edge. The world slowed—the flare light flashing off the metal, her hair whipping across her face, her stomach twisting in freefall—then impact.

Her hands slammed against the cold steel of a ladder bolted into the far wall. The jolt nearly tore her shoulders out of their sockets, but she held on, boots dangling over the pit.

“Come on, come on!” Zoey reached down, grabbing Rumi’s wrist.

A guttural screech tore through the shaft. Rumi looked down—Waltz was midair, leaping the gap with terrifying force. His fingers clawed for her leg.

Then thwip—thunk.

A crossbow bolt struck him in the shoulder mid-jump. He twisted, lost momentum—his hand grazed the ladder rung, scraping metal, and then he fell.

His scream echoed for several seconds before the sound faded into the endless dark.

Rumi clung to the ladder, chest heaving. Her arms trembled so badly she thought she’d slip anyway. Zoey leaned over, pulling her up with both hands.

They collapsed side by side on the cold concrete, panting, the flickering flare light casting long, broken shadows.

“What the fuck man.” Rumi gasped out.

Zoey recovered faster, her breathing almost normal already. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back, we only slowed him down.”

~

The tunnels had finally gone quiet.
Rumi could still feel the ache in her hands from gripping the ladder, her palms raw and shaking. Every breath burned her lungs. Waltz’s scream still echoed faintly in her skull, as if it had carved itself into her bones.

Zoey leaned against the wall nearby, reloading her crossbow with trembling fingers. For a long while, neither spoke. The silence was thick enough to choke on.

Then a low rumble began somewhere in the distance—soft at first, like thunder rolling through the veins of the earth.

Rumi’s eyes flicked up. “Do you hear that?”

Zoey frowned, cocking her head. “Yeah… sounds like—wait.”

The sound deepened. A slow pulse spread through the floor beneath them, followed by a faint electric buzz. The old fluorescent tubes overhead flickered, one by one, coughing back to life after years of decay.

“What the—?” Rumi whispered, shielding her eyes as harsh white light filled the tunnel.

Zoey took a hesitant step forward, then broke into a breathless laugh. “He’s doing it. He’s actually doing it!”

Rumi blinked. “Doing what?”

“The power,” Zoey said, her voice rising with disbelief. “Rumi—he’s turning the power back on!”

Rumi stared at her. “Waltz? But why would he—?”

“I don’t know! And honestly, I don’t care!” Zoey spun in a slow circle, watching the lights stretch down the tunnels, spreading outward like veins of gold through the concrete. “Do you get what this means? The Peacekeepers, the survivors—they’ll have light again! Water systems, comms, everything—this could change everything!”

Rumi shook her head, dazed. “But… he tried to kill us. He isn’t doing this for them.”

Zoey grinned faintly, eyes bright with a kind of hope Rumi hadn’t seen in her for weeks. “Maybe not. Maybe it’s just dumb luck. But it doesn’t matter—this city’s been choking in darkness for years. If the grid’s coming back, even for an hour—people will live because of it.”

The rumble grew louder as generators kicked on across the underground. Distantly, Rumi could hear the heavy thrum of turbines spinning up, followed by the hum of ancient cables reawakening.

She turned slowly, looking down the long, brightly lit corridor. It felt wrong. The shadows were gone, but somehow the world seemed colder.

Rumi clutched the GRE Key, her expression clouded. “He said my name, Zoey. He remembered me. I don’t understand.”

Zoey stepped closer, placing a hand on Rumi’s shoulder. “Hey I get it; that was a little weird and unsettling. Just remember I got your back now.” She smiled, just a little. “We’ll figure out it out later.”

Rumi looked up toward the ceiling, where dust drifted in golden shafts of light. Zoey didn’t get it, Waltz didn’t sound angry or triumphant when her realized who she was.

He almost sounded—tender.

Somewhere above, they could hear distant shouting—people reacting to the sudden blaze of power, the city flickering alive again after years in the dark.

The sound made Zoey’s face soften. “You hear that? They’re cheering.”

Rumi did. Faint voices echoing through the steel and stone. Relief. Joy. Hope.

“Come on, Rumi!” Zoey raced off. “You’re not gonna want to miss this!”

~

Rumi pulled herself up after her, the night air hitting her face in a rush of cold clarity. The rooftop opened before them—broken satellite dishes, crumbling HVAC vents, and the shattered husk of an old neon billboard.

But beyond that… the city.

For years, Villedor had been a graveyard of shadows. Now, one by one, the lights were flickering back to life.

From their vantage point, Rumi and Zoey could see it spread like wildfire—streetlamps igniting, windows glowing in high-rises that hadn’t seen light in a decade. Whole districts came alive in bursts of gold and blue, reflecting off the fog that hung over the rooftops.

Zoey’s face lit up, eyes wide with awe. “Holy hell…” she whispered. “He actually did it.”

Rumi stood frozen beside her, the wind tugging at her jacket. She didn’t know what to say. It was beautiful—and terrifying.

“Look at it!” Zoey laughed, spinning in place. “Rumi, this—this is hope! The PKs will see it from their outposts. The survivors will know the grid’s back. Everything’s changing!”

Rumi watched the light chase away the night across the skyline. For a moment, she let herself believe in it—believe that maybe Waltz’s madness had accidentally done something good.

Below them, a cheer rose up from the streets. Survivors flooded into the open, some crying, some shouting, faces turned upward like they were watching the sunrise for the first time.

The air seemed to vibrate with energy.

Then came the flicker.

It started subtle—a single light on a distant rooftop blinking off, then back on. Another followed. And another.

“Uh… Zoey?” Rumi said quietly.

Zoey frowned, turning. “No, no, no—come on, don’t you dare—”

The hum beneath their feet turned into a strained whine, like the city itself was groaning under its own heartbeat. Lights began to dim across the horizon. Neon signs sputtered. The glow on the streets started dying, block by block.

“Oh, come on!” Zoey shouted, slamming her palm against a vent. “Hold it together!”

A deep mechanical thrum rolled through the air—then the sound of something heavy overloading.

And suddenly, everything went dark again.

The entire skyline vanished into blackness, leaving only the cold moon and the faint orange glow of scattered fires. The cheers below turned into confused murmurs… then screams, as the darkness reclaimed the streets.

Zoey stood motionless, staring out at the dead horizon. “No… it was right there.”

Rumi’s voice was soft, almost a whisper. “It couldn’t handle it. The generators…”

“They overloaded,” Zoey finished bitterly, lowering her crossbow. “We were so close.”

For a long while, they just stood there—two small figures against a city that had almost been reborn.

“Alright Rumi, you head to one substation and turn the power back on. I’ll head to another. Oh hey you’ll need this.”

A paraglider was handed to Rumi—then they were off.

~

The Fisheye buzzed with a kind of energy Rumi hadn’t felt anywhere in Villedor before — laughter, music, light.
For once, it wasn’t fear lighting people’s faces. It was hope.

The neon signs glowed bright again, humming softly against the evening air. Strung lights danced across the courtyard, and the sound of chatter and celebration filled the once-empty hall.

As Rumi pushed open the door, every eye seemed to find her — whispers following her steps.

“That’s her.”
“The one who brought the city back.”
“Turned the generators on herself — all of them — in one day!”

Rumi pulled her hood lower, trying to ignore the attention. Her clothes were still streaked with grease and dust, her arms aching from hours of climbing and rewiring. She didn’t feel like a hero. She just felt tired.

At the far end of the bar, Zoey spotted her first. A bright grin spread across her face, and she waved Rumi over immediately.

“Rumi! Over here!”

Next to her sat Mira — relaxed, a half-smile on her lips, red hair tied back. She looked like someone who’d seen the worst of the world but still found a reason to stay. Zoey leaned into her shoulder naturally, and Mira rested a hand over hers—the kind of quiet affection that didn’t need words.

“Thought you’d fallen into one of those transformer pits,” Zoey teased as Rumi approached. “Didn’t think you’d actually get them all running.”

Rumi gave a small, tired laugh. “Almost did. Twice.” She slid onto the stool beside them. “But the last one was stable. The grid’s connected again — for now.”

Mira raised an eyebrow, her voice low and smooth. “You powered the whole city in a day. I’ve never seen anyone do that — not even the Peacekeepers’ engineers. You know what you just gave people, right?”

Rumi shrugged, her hands still trembling slightly. “A little light.”

Zoey laughed. “A little light? You gave them back everything — power, clean water, radio signals. The bazaar was glowing when we came back through. For once the generators can be maintained instead of constantly running.”

Rumi looked up at them, unsure. “And you’re okay with me handing the facilities to the Survivors? I know you’re pretty neutral but the PK’s are people too.”

Mira smiled, leaning back in her chair. “You made the right call. The Peacekeepers would’ve rationed it, turned it into leverage. But now it belongs to the people who actually live here. That’s what matters.”

Zoey nodded in agreement. “You did something good, Rumi. No politics. No banners. Just hope.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The crowd around them was alive with noise, but their little corner felt still, like it was its own small world.

Zoey reached out, brushing Rumi’s shoulder. “You’ve got no idea how rare that is around here.”

Rumi blinked, surprised by the warmth in her voice. “You make it sound like I did something impossible.”

Mira chuckled softly. “In Villedor? You kind of did.” She tilted her head, studying Rumi. “You remind me of someone I used to know — stubborn, reckless, but… good.”

Zoey shot Mira a teasing look. “Don’t start comparing me to her, she’s better. At least she turned on the lights.”

“And the water,” Mira added, a distant look in her eye. “I thought I mentioned that— but I guess there wasn’t time before you two left me alone at the Bazaar.”

“Hey I apologized for that!” Zoey exclaimed. “It’s not like you didn’t find a way back anyway.”

Mira scoffed.

“Guess we owe you a drink,” Zoey said, signaling the bartender. “For turning the lights back on.”

Rumi grimaced—her body felt like it was made of stone. “Actually…is there a place I could rest?”

The bartender returned with three glasses, but before Zoey could slide one across to Rumi, he leaned closer to them. He kept his voice low—but not low enough. The hum of the canteen dipped just enough for words to travel farther than he meant.

“Sorry, ladies,” he said quietly. “We’re full up tonight. Every room, cot, and bench already taken. People have been pouring in since the lights came back on.”

“Zoey’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re kidding,’ she said, her voice thick with disbelief. ‘How many people are crammed in here?’”

“I wish I was,” the man said, glancing toward Rumi. “Most people flocked here before the power came on, now that it’s on…well they want to celebrate, to spend time in the community. Some people don’t have anywhere else to go, and with the power back on, they’re hoping for a little peace, or maybe even a bed.” He took a look around. “If I had a spare floorboard, I’d give it. She deserves better than that.”

Even though he’d tried to keep his voice down, heads nearby had already turned. Conversations slowed. Glasses stopped clinking.

Rumi felt it — that subtle shift in the air, like everyone had heard but no one dared say a word. It was that subtle tension, the kind that made everything else feel muffled. She forced a small smile anyway. “It’s fine,” she said quietly. “You’ve all got enough to handle.”

A low murmur ran through the canteen. Conversations paused, glasses stopped clinking, eyes darting toward her. The crowd felt that awkward, heavy sort of guilt — not loud, not accusatory — just a shared awareness that the woman who’d given them light was walking away to face more danger.

Zoey frowned. “No, it’s not fine. You heard him, you can’t just—”

“It’s okay.” Rumi cut her off gently, pulling her face mask back up and sliding her drink over to Mira. “He brought up a good point, the powers back, I’ll handle one of the metro stations tonight.

“The metro station!” Zoey gave up all poise, anything to try to convince Rumi to stay. “Rumi they are full of infected!”

“They always are, better to go at night than during the day.” Rumi smirked a little, looking to Mira. “Remember that Dark Hollow I cleared out during the day.”

Mira frowned, frustration and concern warring across her face. “Rumi you’ve been running around for days, nearly weeks you need rest.”

The crowd had gone quiet, picking up on the tension. People whispered to each other, some casting sympathetic glances toward her. A few muttered quietly about how much she’d already given them, and now she was heading back into danger.

“It will be fine.” Then she disappeared into the darkness.

A moment later, they heard the screech of volatiles and the beginnings of a chase.

The warm glow of the Fisheye faded behind her. Outside, the city streets shimmered under the restored lights, but shadows and danger waited below in the tunnels. Inside, the crowd murmured quietly, aware that she was giving more than they could ever repay, while Mira rested a steadying hand on Zoey’s shoulder.

Chapter Text

The next morning, the makeshift cafeteria buzzed with muted energy as the morning crowd filed in, trays clattering, voices low but lively. People moved through the line, grabbing bread, porridge, and steaming cups of watered-down coffee, but there were constant, almost imperceptible glances toward the door.

Somewhere in the back of their minds, everyone was checking: had she made it through the night?

Zoey and Mira stood near the serving tables, passing out food and keeping an eye on the line. Their conversation was quiet, tucked between the clatter of dishes and the hum of morning chatter.

“I don’t get it,” Zoey whispered as she handed a tray to a waiting survivor. “How do we convince her to take a break? Even one night?”

Mira shook her head, eyes scanning the crowd. “She doesn’t see it as a choice. It’s… not rest she wants. It’s her sister. Trying to get her to rest at the Bazaar was a chore too.”

Even as they spoke, a few patrons let out quiet sighs of relief when Rumi finally stepped through the doorway. She moved like someone who hadn’t slept much, hair tangled, sleeves smeared with grease, but alive—and that was enough.

The subtle tension that had lingered in the room all morning eased just slightly. Conversations picked up, eyes flicking to her in silent acknowledgment: she had survived. They had glimpsed her courage the day before, but seeing her in the morning, walking among them unscathed, gave a quiet weight of relief that didn’t need words.

Rumi approached Mira and Zoey, tilting her head toward the steaming trays. “Breakfast?” she asked simply.

Zoey practically bounced. “Yeah! You’re just in time. Mira brewed the coffee too—strong enough to wake the dead.”

Mira shot Zoey a look, half amused, half exasperated, and then gestured toward a small empty table. Rumi took the seat without fuss, letting the tray be set before her.

People nearby offered small nods or murmurs as they passed, their eyes lingering a moment longer than necessary. No one crowded her, no one spoke directly—just a quiet acknowledgment, a subtle shared relief that the one who’d brought light back to the city had come through the night.

Zoey leaned close, whispering as she poured coffee into Rumi’s cup. “You made it. Good to see you.”

Rumi’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “Of course.”

Mira rested a hand briefly on Zoey’s arm, a small gesture of reassurance. The cafeteria hummed around them, alive with people who had hope again, and for a moment, all of them—crowd included—were reminded that survival sometimes had a face, and it was walking through the door, right now.

~

They headed up to a small room adjacent to the bar in the cafeteria.

“One thing, Rumi,” Zoey said, uncharacteristically stern. “Do you see these people?”

Rumi looked around, everyone having a somewhat civil conversation.

“Anywhere else they’d be savages, at each other’s throats…but not here.” Zoey stepped forward as Mira relaxed against the wall. “Here they stay calm, cool and collected…’cause of Celine.”

Zoey’s tone was full of awe, or reverence now.

“They respect her because she was a Nightrunner. Everyone here owes her something. Including me…If it wasn’t for Celine, well I wouldn’t be here.”

“Where would you be?” Rumi couldn’t help but be curious.

“In a dark zone, as a Biter…” Zoey said, arm coming up to point at Rumi.

“I’d be in a den, high and about to get higher.” Mira added, voice low.

“Celine will help us. You can rely on her too. Trust me.” Zoey leaned back on the wall. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Rumi nodded and pushed into the room, just as a beer bottle got thrown into the wall next to them.

“Dammit Mi-yeong, why did you have to trust him.”

“Celine!” Zoey rushed over. “It’s me! Come on, Mi-yeong has been dead for years.”

Celine swayed on her feet. “You? Why are you interrupting our conversation with—“

“Celine, come on you got a visitor.” Zoey motioned to Rumi. “This is Rumi, she has a working GRE Key.”

Celine’s head snapped up, zeroing on the purple hair. “Rumi? No, no, she died.” Suddenly she lunged.

“Celine!” Mira grabbed her.

“Who the fuck are you! Why are you wearing her face?!”

Rumi grimaced a bit, that was a new reaction to her but she was here for a reason. “Come on, this GRE key contains info and I need to be able to read it.”

“It’s a fucking key not a diary, it turns things on and opens doors.” Celine rolled her eyes. “You need some place to stick it, and before I tell you where you can stick it, get out. God Mi-yeong why did you trust him!”

Rumi winced as Celine got lost in her memories, memories that were darker than the night. She left the room while Mira and Zoey settled Celine just as a loud horn blared through the room.

That’s when Rumi heard it.

Renegades.

Rumi gave in to her anger at Celine, and channeled it into dispatching the Renegades.

At least until a large cannon hit the Fisheye.

Moving, Rumi left the fighting to Mira and Zoey, she had to find the cannon.

~

After the fight, Rumi walked over to the Peacekeeper commander who helped her.

“Excuse me sir, I have a question. I’m looking for a GRE database.”

The commander, Jack Matt, looked at her with a glint in his eye. “A GRE database? Why do you want one of those?”

“I’m looking for my sister.”

Jack Matt hummed. “Zoey! She’s your friend?”

Zoey smirked a little. “You could say that.”

“How about you tell me about the Old Villedor Peacekeepers and I’ll direct you to who can help you.”

Then she was once again running through the city.

~

Morning light filtered through the high windows of the Fisheye. The makeshift cafeteria hummed softly with activity: survivors serving themselves porridge, passing bowls to one another, quietly watching for signs that Rumi had survived another night. When she walked in, heads lifted, eyes scanning her for injuries or exhaustion. Relief softened their expressions when they saw her alive, though no one spoke it aloud—gratitude hung in the air like smoke.

“Morning,” Rumi said, sliding onto a bench near the back. Mira and Zoey were at a long table nearby, sifting through scraps of schematics and supply lists. They looked up at her with faint smiles, worry still in their eyes.

Breakfast done, Rumi moved through the suspended levels of the Fisheye, checking on the water filtration system first. She knelt by the pipes and pumps, clearing debris and adjusting valves. Streams of clean water began flowing into the basins below, and a few survivors nearby exhaled quietly, visibly relieved.

Next, she tackled the storerooms. Crates of canned food, blankets, and supplies were stacked haphazardly on the metal platforms. Rumi organized them, labeling boxes, and stacking heavier items safely. Some survivors drifted close, helping where they could, or just watching, nodding silently at her efficiency.

Later, she made her way to a nearby abandoned store that had been overrun with the infected. Carefully descending a narrow stairwell that connected the Fisheye to street level, Rumi moved silently through the store, dodging shadows and broken glass. She grabbed what food supplies she could carry, her movements precise to avoid drawing attention. Returning to the Fisheye with the loot, she handed the packages to the waiting survivors. A few of them exhaled in relief, glances darting at her as if to silently thank her for surviving such a dangerous trip.

By mid-afternoon, she was back at the upper levels, fixing broken lights and replacing frayed cables. Mira wandered over with a cup of tea. “You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep going like this,” she said. Her voice held concern, but also a quiet admiration.

“I’ll rest later,” Rumi replied, still focused on her work. “Right now, these lights need to stay on. People depend on it.”

Zoey appeared moments later, leaning on a railing above the street. “You’ve already done more than anyone else could today,” she said. “Let us help with the next round.”

Rumi allowed herself a faint smile. “You can. But for now, I’ve got to make sure everyone has food and water, and that the lights don’t fail.”

As evening fell, Rumi finally paused, surveying the suspended Fisheye. Water flowed cleanly, food was sorted, and the upper levels were secure. Mira rested a hand on Zoey’s shoulder, both women looking at her with quiet pride. Survivors moved about with subtle relief in their expressions—about three of their worries were well taken care of for the day.

For Rumi, it wasn’t a real rest day, but it was a day she could see the difference she was making, even from above the street level, where danger lurked below.

~

The Fisheye hung above the street, lights glowing warmly against the night, a rare beacon of safety in a city that had grown dark and dangerous. Outside, survivors lingered near the railings, quiet but alert, all of them straining to see the streets below.

They had all heard the cry for help but only Rumi shot up and was running on pavement before anyone could react.

Dusk turned to night.

A survivor returned.

But no Rumi.

Mira’s eyes were fixed on the faint shape darting between rubble and shadows. She had seen Rumi do the impossible before—the mother and child at the Bazaar came to mind—but tonight something felt different. Her chest tightened as she tracked the figure moving toward the Fisheye.

A figure being chased by volatiles.

“She’s coming back,” Zoey whispered, nudging Mira’s shoulder. “She’ll be safe as soon as she gets here.”

But then it emerged—what many called a Tyrant. Larger than any volatile they’d seen, it moved with slow, deliberate purpose, eyes locked on Rumi. UV lamps flickered along the Fisheye’s edge, ready to repel threats, but the Tyrant did not flinch. Not even a twitch but it slowed minusculely. Mira’s stomach sank.

“Fuck… it’s not afraid,” Mira murmured, voice tight. “UV doesn’t slow it.”

Rumi spotted it too, glancing up at the Fisheye’s lights. She slowed, skidding behind a toppled dumpster, assessing the situation. For a heartbeat, the survivors below thought she might make it inside safely—but then she shook her head and backtracked, sprinting down the street.

The crowd at the Fisheye shifted, murmuring under their breath, relief and fear mingling. Some leaned closer to see where she would go next, eyes wide. Mira’s grip tightened on the railing.

Zoey bit her lip. “What…where is she going…” Her voice wavered.

The Tyrant advanced, uncaring of the UV light that had stopped smaller volatiles before. Rumi ducked into the shadows, flaring a small UV emitter in a desperate attempt to slow it, and managed a narrow gap—but now she was heading away from safety, deeper into danger.

Mira’s mind raced. She knew Rumi could survive. She had seen it countless times. But the Tyrant was different—smarter, tougher, resistant to the tools Rumi usually relied on. Her stomach twisted with worry, her pulse echoing the frantic movements below.

A small cheer broke from one corner of the crowd as Rumi flipped over debris and used a fallen metal sign to slow the Tyrant’s pursuit. But the relief was tempered by the knowledge that the UV lights—their sanctuary—wouldn’t protect her if the creature kept pressing forward.

The survivors whispered quietly to each other, glances flicking between Mira and Zoey, sharing unspoken awe and fear. Zoey’s hand found Mira’s arm, squeezing tightly. Mira nodded slightly, her gaze never leaving the street, willing Rumi to survive—but knowing she would have to do it without the safety of the Fisheye.

The chase lead to the rooftops—less biters but more volatiles.

Someone pointed across the gap between the buildings. “There. Look.”

Dozens of eyes turned.

Across from them, two rooftops lower, a figure moved fast through the broken air ducts and shattered solar panels. Even from that distance, they could tell by her motion who it was — lean, precise, every step deliberate.

Rumi.

And behind her—the Tyrant.

It climbed after her, fast and unnatural. Its size doing nothing to slow it down, if anything it seemed faster than a normal volatile.

The crowd on the Fisheye went still.

The first flare rose like a signal fire. A violet bloom against the black skyline — far across the rooftops, small but unmistakable.

Zoey’s voice came out as a whisper. “That’s… that’s a safe zone block. She’s right under the UV line.”

“She’s not safe,” Mira said quietly. “Not against that, they have a resistance to UV light. Some people have said they can even survive sunlight.”

If that’s the case I don’t like her odds. Mira thought.

Another flare hissed to life. The rooftop bathed in purple. Every time the light flared, the Tyrant’s skin seemed to boil — smoke rising, the air rippling from heat.

And every time, the flare died.

Between flashes, the crowd saw only shapes — Rumi’s silhouette ducking behind a vent, rolling away from a claw, her blade swinging wide. The monster’s outline loomed, blotting out parts of the cityscape.

From the Fisheye’s roof, it looked almost silent. No sound carried across the gap — only light, motion, and the pulse of fear that passed through every person watching.

“She’s still throwing them,” Zoey murmured. “One after another…”

Mira’s hands tightened on the railing. Her eyes burned from trying to follow the rhythm of the fight. “She’s pacing them,” she said under her breath. “Keeping just enough light to hold it back.”

Someone in the crowd whispered, “She’s going to run out.”

But no one looked away.

A flare died out — darkness swallowed the rooftop.

For a long, breathless moment, there was nothing. Just the city’s dead hush.

Then a new flare burst to life — closer to the edge this time, painting both Rumi and the Tyrant in violent light.

She was bleeding. They could see it glinting down her arm. But she didn’t stop moving. Her machete flashed, cutting arcs of silver through the purple haze.

The Tyrant screamed — a sound deeper than the normal volatile shrieks. Its body recoiled, then surged forward again, swiping wide.

Rumi ducked, swung upward, and buried the blade in its shoulder.

The crowd reacted as one — a ripple of motion, gasps, curses, the kind of sound people make when watching something impossible unfold.

Another flare.

The fifth. Maybe the sixth. It was hard to tell now — they came faster, shorter. Each one burned less bright.

The rooftop shimmered in pulses: light, dark, light again.

Each flicker showed a different snapshot — Rumi mid-swing; Rumi stumbling; the Tyrant’s claws sparking off concrete; the flare tumbling between them.

When the last flare lit, everyone on the Fisheye seemed to stop breathing.

It was dimmer than the others — not much more than a candle.

Rumi stood near its edge, body shaking, machete raised. The Tyrant hesitated just outside the glow, skin twitching, and smoke coiling off it like breath.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then she stepped forward into the light, her face half-shrouded, jaw set in defiance.

And she swung.

The flare died mid-motion.

The rooftop went black.