The world came back to me in fragments—slow, disjointed, and smelling distinctly of burnt despair and industrial regret.
The first thing I registered was the taste, a gritty blend of soot, copper, and what I could only assume was the charred ghost of my last three bad decisions. My tongue felt like sandpaper that had lost the will to live.
Somewhere far off, something dripped steadily—water, blood, melted steel, who could say? The rhythm of it was almost peaceful, if you ignored the orchestra of crackling fire and the occasional hiss of tortured metal twisting itself into modern art.
Every muscle in my body screamed, and my brain felt like someone had replaced it with a shaken snow globe. The air was thick, a soup of ash and smoke that clung to my skin in a film of filth and failure.
I tried to shift, but gravity seemed offended by the idea of me standing up. For a glorious moment, I considered just staying there forever—becoming one with the rubble, letting the tunnel bury me in peace.
Then a voice, smooth and familiar as well-aged cynicism, drifted through the haze. "Loona," it said, quiet but cutting. "If you intend to die, do it later. You're blocking my view."
I groaned, a sound somewhere between a dying man and a deflating bellows, and tried to roll over. My arms trembled like wet parchment. Before I could collapse again, a firm hand caught my shoulder, steadying me with an efficiency that made me want to slap it out of principle.
"Atticus," I croaked, blinking through the fog until his angular silhouette came into focus. "You radiant apparition of exasperation. Am I dead, or did the afterlife just downgrade its staff?"
His glasses caught the light, cracked lenses still managing to glint with that trademark disdain. He looked like death warmed over and then re-soured for flavor. Dust smeared across his cloak and a long streak of soot bisected his normally pristine face.
Somehow, even half-burned and limping, he still carried himself like an offended librarian who'd survived the apocalypse purely out of spite.
"You're alive," he said, voice calm but steady in just the right way, "though by every metric of logic, you shouldn't be."
I gave him a weak grin, the kind that said yes, I'm in agony, but I'm still insufferable. "You say that like it's new information."
He sighed—the kind of long-suffering, scholarly exhalation that could have extinguished small fires. Without another word, he reached into his soot-stained coat and produced a small glass vial filled with a murky green liquid that bubbled faintly, like it was both alive and irritated.
"Drink," he ordered, pressing it into my hand.
I blinked at the thing, tilting it just enough for the sluggish liquid to catch the dim light. "What is it?" I asked, because nothing good in a vial ever comes without at least mild regret.
"An experimental restorative compound," Atticus said briskly. "Alchemy. Don't think—just drink."
I raised a brow, because sarcasm is cheaper than courage. "Saints, Atticus, do I look like I have health insurance?"
He gave me that look—half glare, half lecture. "Just drink the damn potion."
"Well, when you put it like that," I muttered, uncorking it with a pop that sounded far too cheerful for something that was probably illegal in several countries. I sniffed once, gagged immediately, and muttered a prayer to any divinity who wasn't currently laughing at me.
Then, with the theatrical bravado of a man who's made every wrong choice and sees no reason to stop now, I tipped it back and swallowed.
It tasted like swamp water and battery acid had a baby. My throat burned, my tongue staged a revolt, and my stomach did an interpretive dance titled Regret: The Musical.
I threw the vial aside, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Saints, Atticus, that was vile. You could've at least flavored it with mint."
"Shut it," he said with a deadpan expression to his face.
A sharp retort died on my tongue as the first ripple of warmth spread through my limbs. It started at my fingertips, a subtle hum, then rolled upward in waves of prickling heat that licked across my skin like invisible fire.
The burns on my arms began to fade, the raw sting receding until only faint scars remained. Even the ache in my ribs eased, replaced by a heavy, comforting numbness.
I flexed my fingers slowly, staring at them as if I'd just discovered them for the first time. "Well," I said, exhaling shakily, "I take back most of the insults I thought about you in the last five minutes."
"How generous," he murmured, pushing his glasses higher on his nose.
I turned to him, more alert now, scanning the smoke-filled tunnel. "What about the others?"
He was about to answer when a voice echoed from the darkness ahead—hoarse, sharp, and gloriously alive. "You two dead yet?"
It was Freya.
Her silhouette emerged from the haze first, swaggering through the lingering smoke like a warrior goddess dragged through a bonfire too stubborn to notice.
Her clothes were scorched and her cheek bore a new scar that caught the smoldering light like a badge of defiance. Behind her, Dregan stumbled along, coughing into the crook of his arm and cursing under his breath.
"You're late," I said as they approached, managing a crooked grin. "We were about to start the memorial."
Dregan sauntered closer, his shirt half-burned at the hem, before whipping out a cigar and clenching it between his teeth. Gods, the man could survive the end of days and still find time to smoke about it.
He squinted at me through the haze, lips quirking into a grin. "You know, for a man who keeps promising a spectacular death, you're remarkably bad at staying dead."
"Occupational hazard," I said dryly. "Though I appreciate the consistency of your concern—it really warms the heart."
Just then, a shadow moved at the edge of the group. Brutus loomed into view, silent and solid as ever, shotgun slung across his back, eyes scanning the ruins behind us with the wary stillness of a predator waiting for another shoe—or train—to drop. His presence was a kind of anchor, quiet but absolute.
Behind him, Victor stumbled into the light, his hair singed into rebellious curls. He froze mid-step when his gaze fell on me. For a heartbeat, the man looked like he'd seen a ghost—or worse, that I'd survived.
I grinned, baring my fang just to twist the knife. "What, you disappointed?"
He blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing before he managed, "Statistically speaking, yes. Emotionally speaking… also yes."
I was about to retort when movement at Brutus's side caught my eye. The beastman shifted there, and from behind his bulk emerged a small figure—thin, trembling, covered in soot. Saints above, it was Dunny.
The boy's eyes were wide, his cheeks streaked with grime and tears. His small hands balled into fists that looked more lost than angry. He was shouting something, voice cracking through the air, but I couldn't hear it over the pounding in my chest.
My heart twisted itself into a knot.
And yet I pushed forward, straining my eyes against the haze until the beastman stepped aside, his gaze flicking to me with quiet understanding. I was beginning to take another step forward when Atticus's hand shot out, catching my sleeve.
"Don't," he said softly. "He's—"
"I have to," I cut him off, my voice breaking at the edges.
Atticus sighed but released me. I crossed the distance slowly, each step heavy as penance. Dunny froze when I drew near, his face crumpling in disbelief.
"Don't tell me," he whispered. His knees buckled before he sank to the ground, shoulders trembling, tears cutting fresh lines down his face. "Where's Gramps?" His voice cracked like broken glass. "You—you were supposed to help him. You said—"
I dropped to a crouch before him, words fumbling in my mouth. "Dunny… I—" I swallowed hard, throat dry as ash. The words scraped out, raw and useless. "I tried, Dunny. I swear I did."
He laughed—a horrible, wet sound between a sob and a choke. "Tried doesn't mean anything! He's—he's gone!"
The air felt too thick, too heavy. There was nothing I could offer, no clever remark, no well-timed joke that could patch the raw hole left behind. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
He waved me off weakly, tears dripping onto his knees. I wanted to reach for him, to offer something, anything, but guilt crawled up my spine like a parasite, eating its fill. I drew back instead, my hands falling uselessly to my sides. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable, until a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.
It was Brutus. Of course it was.
His grip was firm, grounding, not a word leaving his mouth, yet somehow even that very gesture told me all I needed to know. I met his gaze briefly, found the faintest nod there—a promise, a quiet absolution.
I turned back to the tunnel, blinking through the smoke, and there it was—the wreckage of the train sprawled like a slain beast, its once-mighty frame now reduced to mangled steel and firelight. Beyond it, the barrier had been obliterated, torn open into a yawning chasm that led deeper into the black expanse.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The faint crackle of burning metal was the only sound, mingling with the soft sobs of a boy who'd lost the only man who mattered to him.
Finally, I straightened, squaring my shoulders, forcing my voice into steadiness.
"Let's go," I said, hard and unyielding.
No one questioned it. Maybe they were too tired, or maybe they trusted me in spite of my spectacular track record of half-baked miracles. Our crew began to move, slow and wary, gathering what little remained intact—supplies, weapons, whatever luck hadn't burned away.
We had barely taken ten steps when the sound came—sharp, cutting through the smoke like the crack of a whip.
"Halt!"