The city never truly slept. Even in its ruin, even under the blanket of soot and silence, something always moved in the dark.
Ada finished her final sweep of the second floor, boots silent against the cracked tiles. She caught a glimpse of Vega at the far end, checking the last barricade. Their eyes met briefly across the darkness—just a flicker—and it was enough.
They didn't need words anymore. Not for the basics.
Ada adjusted the makeshift map pinned to a broken shelf, marking the new patrol routes. Behind her, Vega approached, balancing two chipped enamel mugs filled with a watery imitation of coffee.
"Luxury service," Vega quipped, handing one over.
Ada took it without comment, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at her mouth. She sipped. It tasted like burnt plastic and regret.
"Better than nothing," she said eventually.
They leaned against the ruined counter, surveying their small, fragile world. Around them, the survivors moved in sluggish patterns—repairing tarps, rationing supplies, whispering plans they barely dared hope would matter.
A heavy thud from downstairs shattered the moment.
Ada tensed instantly. Vega set her mug down with a soft clink and palmed her knife.
They moved together, silent and precise.
At the ground floor, they found a small crowd gathered near the southern barricade. Tension crackled in the air.
In the center of the commotion stood Marrow—the scar-jawed troublemaker from earlier—his arms crossed, an ugly grin stretched across his face. Beside him were three others, younger, hungrier, their eyes glittering with something more dangerous than fear: resentment.
"You think we're just gonna sit here and starve under your rules?" Marrow barked, voice carrying. "Who made you queens of this dump?"
Ada stepped forward, every inch of her posture radiating cold authority.
"No one made us anything," she said evenly. "We took responsibility when no one else would."
Marrow spat on the ground. "Yeah? Maybe we should take it back."
A low, ugly murmur rippled through the crowd. Some faces turned away. Others watched, uncertain.
Vega shifted slightly, coming to stand at Ada's side, her hand resting lightly on her belt where her weapon was holstered. Her presence was a silent promise.
Ada's voice dropped to a lethal calm. "You're welcome to leave."
That silenced a few of the louder murmurs. Out there, beyond these broken walls, was death. Infection. Hunger. Mutants. Alone, survival was a myth.
Marrow sneered, but Ada saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.
"You think you can scare us?" he growled.
Vega smiled then—small, sharp, without warmth. "No. We think the world out there will do it for us."
For a heartbeat, it seemed Marrow might push it—might lunge, force a confrontation neither side could afford. Ada's muscles coiled in readiness.
Then one of his boys muttered something too low to catch and tugged at Marrow's sleeve. Fear was stronger than anger, today.
Marrow spat another curse and stormed off, his crew trailing behind him.
The tension broke like a snapped wire.
Ada exhaled slowly. Vega bumped her shoulder lightly against Ada's as they turned back toward the second floor.
"Handled that with a stunning lack of bloodshed," Vega murmured. "Proud of you."
Ada huffed a humorless laugh. "Give it time."
Back upstairs, they resumed their quiet patrols. The building creaked under the weight of old bones. Somewhere a loose sign swung on its last hinge, tapping out a lonely rhythm.
They paused by a shattered display window overlooking the ruined city. The horizon was a smear of red and black.
Vega leaned her forearms against the frame, staring out. "You ever wonder if it's even worth it?"
Ada didn't answer immediately. She watched the wind stir the broken glass, watched the city crumble a little more with each passing hour.
Finally, she said, "It doesn't matter."
Vega tilted her head, curious. "Because?"
"Because we don't get to quit," Ada said simply. "Not until it's over."
Vega snorted softly. "Inspirational. You should print that on T-shirts."
Ada's mouth twitched, a tiny ghost of amusement.
They stood there a while longer, sharing a silence that wasn't uncomfortable. A partnership built not on sentiment, but on survival, on understanding the weight they both carried.
A sudden static burst across their comms.
Ada straightened. Vega immediately keyed her earpiece.
A survivor's voice crackled through—nervous, high-pitched.
"Movement outside the east wing! Fast—too fast to be human—"
The transmission cut off in a burst of white noise.
Ada and Vega locked eyes.
"Gear up," Ada ordered, already moving.
They sprinted through the empty halls, past startled survivors, descending the battered stairwell two steps at a time.
Near the east barricade, the night pressed thick and heavy against the broken glass doors. Shapes shifted just beyond the reach of their floodlights—shadowy, jerky.
Ada's pulse kicked up. Vega drew her sidearm, checking the chamber.
As they positioned themselves near the entrance, Ada spoke low.
"We hold. No panic. Drive them off if we can."
Vega flashed a quick grin, adrenaline sparking in her eyes. "You always say the most romantic things."
A dry, humorless chuckle escaped Ada despite herself. "Stay alive. We'll argue later."
The darkness stirred again—and this time, something slammed against the barricade with bone-jarring force.
All around them, the survivors huddled, wide-eyed and trembling.
Ada leveled her rifle.
"Ready?" she asked without looking.
Vega slid into position beside her, shoulder to shoulder.
"Always."
And as the barricade shuddered under the next impact, Ada felt something fierce and steady settle inside her.
They weren't alone in this fight.
Not anymore.