They left the bodies where they fell.
Ashen did not look back. He never did. The city would erase the evidence soon enough—data scrubbers, narrative filters, corporate silence. Violence was not unusual here. Only the parts that could not be explained were dangerous.
They moved through a transit corridor where trains no longer stopped, the rails humming faintly beneath layers of dust and neglect. Pale light bled through fractured panels overhead, casting long, broken shadows across the floor.
The girl walked slower now.
Not from exhaustion.
From uncertainty.
Ashen sensed it in the way her steps faltered, in how she kept glancing at her hands as if expecting them to vanish between one breath and the next.
"You didn't ask," she said at last.
Ashen continued forward. "Ask what."
"About me." She swallowed. "About why I'm like this."
He stopped beneath a cracked display panel. Its screen flickered, cycling through outdated schedules and destinations that no longer existed.
"Answers change nothing," he said.
She studied his back, her expression tightening. "They change how it feels."
Ashen turned slowly.
For a moment, he considered lying.
Not to protect her.
To preserve distance.
But the words that came were older than intention.
"I have died," he said. "More times than this world can count."
Her eyes widened. She did not interrupt.
"I wake up," he continued, voice steady, almost detached. "Different place. Different era. Same weight. Same blade."
He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I don't remember everything," he said. "But I remember enough to know this is not the first time something like you has happened."
She took a step back. "Something like me?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.
She laughed weakly, the sound cracking at the edges. "That's… not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be."
They resumed walking.
The corridor opened into a wide chamber where broken trains sat frozen on dead rails. Faint holograms flickered along the walls—advertisements playing to no one, looping endlessly, refusing to acknowledge abandonment.
She sat on the edge of a platform, legs dangling over the dark below.
Ashen remained standing.
"If I disappear," she said quietly, "will you remember me?"
Ashen did not answer immediately.
Memory, he had learned, was not something he controlled.
"I will remember the absence," he said at last.
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "That sounds worse."
"It is."
She nodded, accepting the answer as one accepts a verdict.
Above them, far beyond concrete and steel, systems strained to reconcile conflicting data. Models collapsed. Simulations failed.
PERSISTENT IMAGINARY STRUCTURE DETECTED
HOST RESISTANCE: ABNORMAL
Ashen felt it then—a pull, deep and familiar. Not toward the past.
Toward something sealed away.
Toward a version of himself that had once made a choice.
A bad one.
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the girl was watching him with a gentleness that did not belong in this world.
"You look like someone who's lost something," she said.
Ashen looked away.
"I did," he replied.
The lights flickered.
For just a moment, the reflection on the train window showed something impossible—
Ashen standing alone.
Then it corrected itself.
And the corridor fell silent once more.
They left the bodies where they fell.
Ashen did not look back. He never did. The city would erase the evidence soon enough—data scrubbers, narrative filters, corporate silence. Violence was not unusual here. Only the parts that could not be explained were dangerous.
They moved through a transit corridor where trains no longer stopped, the rails humming faintly beneath layers of dust and neglect. Pale light bled through fractured panels overhead, casting long, broken shadows across the floor.
The girl walked slower now.
Not from exhaustion.
From uncertainty.
Ashen sensed it in the way her steps faltered, in how she kept glancing at her hands as if expecting them to vanish between one breath and the next.
"You didn't ask," she said at last.
Ashen continued forward. "Ask what."
"About me." She swallowed. "About why I'm like this."
He stopped beneath a cracked display panel. Its screen flickered, cycling through outdated schedules and destinations that no longer existed.
"Answers change nothing," he said.
She studied his back, her expression tightening. "They change how it feels."
Ashen turned slowly.
For a moment, he considered lying.
Not to protect her.
To preserve distance.
But the words that came were older than intention.
"I have died," he said. "More times than this world can count."
Her eyes widened. She did not interrupt.
"I wake up," he continued, voice steady, almost detached. "Different place. Different era. Same weight. Same blade."
He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I don't remember everything," he said. "But I remember enough to know this is not the first time something like you has happened."
She took a step back. "Something like me?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched between them, thick and fragile.
She laughed weakly, the sound cracking at the edges. "That's… not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be."
They resumed walking.
The corridor opened into a wide chamber where broken trains sat frozen on dead rails. Faint holograms flickered along the walls—advertisements playing to no one, looping endlessly, refusing to acknowledge abandonment.
She sat on the edge of a platform, legs dangling over the dark below.
Ashen remained standing.
"If I disappear," she said quietly, "will you remember me?"
Ashen did not answer immediately.
Memory, he had learned, was not something he controlled.
"I will remember the absence," he said at last.
She looked up at him, eyes glistening. "That sounds worse."
"It is."
She nodded, accepting the answer as one accepts a verdict.
Above them, far beyond concrete and steel, systems strained to reconcile conflicting data. Models collapsed. Simulations failed.
PERSISTENT IMAGINARY STRUCTURE DETECTED
HOST RESISTANCE: ABNORMAL
Ashen felt it then—a pull, deep and familiar. Not toward the past.
Toward something sealed away.
Toward a version of himself that had once made a choice.
A bad one.
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the girl was watching him with a gentleness that did not belong in this world.
"You look like someone who's lost something," she said.
Ashen looked away.
"I did," he replied.
The lights flickered.
For just a moment, the reflection on the train window showed something impossible—
Ashen standing alone.
Then it corrected itself.
And the corridor fell silent once more.