After a fire, Breakwater's nights stretch. Sirens ricochet block to block. People whisper sabotage, insurance scams, redevelopment. Nobody says murder. It sits in the smoke anyway.
Ash walked with his hood low, Mina carried against his side. She was light as a bundle of sticks, but his arms ached anyway, not from her weight—from the silence. She hadn't spoken once since he'd dragged her out. She hadn't cried either. Just stared past him at the rain, clutching the sketchbook so hard the corners had bent.
Every time Ash glanced down, her eyes seemed to catch him in the act. Not sharp, not even curious. Just steady, like she was memorising him the way she memorised puddles and buildings. He hated it.
He hated how much it reminded him of himself at her age.
The shelter was three blocks off the arterial. A converted church, cracked stained glass patched with plywood. A red neon cross still glowed half-dead above the door, buzzing like a dying insect. Ash hesitated at the corner.
He could leave her. The paperwork would pretend to search. Odds were a coin flip—foster, vanish, or worse.
Smart move. Survivor move. It still made his stomach turn.
The yellow pack pressed against his shoulder. Salvo was waiting. A delay would cost him more than money.
Ash looked down again. Mina hadn't moved. Her face was blank, but her knuckles were white around the sketchbook.
"Damn it," he muttered for the second time that night, and pulled her closer as he passed the shelter.
The diner sat two blocks further—the Neon Spoon. The old sign flickered, its smell of grease clinging even through the rain. Ash pushed through the glass door and into the wash of fluorescent light. The hum of refrigerators was steady, almost comforting. A few customers nursed coffee and practised not seeing each other.
The waitress behind the counter gave Ash a look. She knew him, not by name, but by type—drifters with wet jackets and eyes that never stopped checking exits.
Mina blinked against the sudden light. Ash guided her into a booth at the back, out of sight from the street. She slid into the cracked vinyl, knees pulled up, sketchbook on the table like a plate.
"What's the special tonight?" Ash asked the waitress.
'Special's a lie,' she said. 'Eggs or soup. Pick.'
"Soup," Ash said. "Two bowls."
When the food came, Mina just stared at hers. Steam rose into her face, but she didn't lift the spoon. Ash nudged it toward her.
"Eat. You'll need it."
She didn't move.
He sighed, picked up his own spoon, and started in on his bowl. Grease floated in circles on top, but the salt was exactly what his body craved after smoke. After a few minutes, Mina lifted her spoon—small, mechanical motions. Half the soup vanished before she paused again.
Progress.
Ash leaned back, rubbing at his temples. The diner was quiet, just the sound of forks, cups, and rain drumming faintly against the windows. Block by block, the city burns, but places like this survive. No one knows how. Maybe the corps haven't found a way to monetise bad coffee.
Mina's pencil scratched. She'd propped the sketchbook open and was already drawing, spoon abandoned. Ash glanced at the page. Not the fire. Not the street. Not even him.
The soup bowl.
Perfect circles of oil, steam curling off, the cheap spoon warped by heat. Every detail exact.
He dragged his eyes away, suddenly uncomfortable.
"You've got a hell of a memory," he muttered.
She didn't answer.
His phone buzzed again. Salvo. He ignored it.
Outside, Breakwater was still roaring. Fire crews would be hosing down skeleton beams. COA would be herding survivors into buses. Insurance agents were probably already circling like gulls.
Ash shouldn't have been part of any of it. Should've been on his way to the drop, cash in hand, new job lined up tomorrow.
Instead, he was sitting in a diner booth with a soot-stained kid and the weight of a yellow pack that suddenly felt like an afterthought.
He rubbed his lighter between his fingers, flicked it once. The flame reflected in the diner window. He snapped it shut.
"What the hell am I doing?" he said again, under his breath.
Mina kept drawing.
Ash left Mina in the booth when the soup was finished, sketchbook clutched against her chest like it was part of her ribs.
"Stay put," he told her.
She didn't nod. Didn't even blink. But she didn't move either. That would have to do.
The pack was heavier with every step out of the diner. Rain swallowed him again, neon reflected in puddles stretching like veins through the street.
Salvo's shop wasn't far. An old locksmith storefront, paint peeling, windows covered in metal mesh. The kind of place that survived by being too useless to loot. A single buzzing bulb lit the doorway.
Ash knocked once, then twice.
The locks clicked. Salvo opened the door just far enough for Ash to slide in.
The fixer was wiry, hair slicked back with cheap grease, eyes too sharp to ever look tired. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and stale coffee. A desk sat behind him, stacked with ledgers—half real, half theatre.
"You're late," Salvo said, no hello.
"Traffic," Ash answered, shrugging off the pack.
Salvo chuckled, a dry sound. "Traffic. That's good." He tapped his pen against the ledger, watching Ash's hands as he set the bag down. "You've got it?"
Ash slid the yellow pack across.
Salvo unzipped it and rifled through it without pulling anything out. Documents, maybe data drives. Things Ash didn't want to know about. Fixers thrived on willful ignorance.
"You didn't peek," Salvo said.
"Not my business."
"That's why you're still breathing," Salvo said, zipping it shut. He leaned back, studying Ash. "And why you'll keep working."
Ash nodded once. He knew the script. You didn't thank Salvo. Gratitude made you look weak.
But Salvo didn't hand over the envelope. He just let silence stretch.
Ash met his eyes. "Problem?"
"You tell me," Salvo said. His voice was smooth, practised. He gestured lazily at Ash's jacket. "You're carrying extra weight. Not the pack. Something else."
Ash's jaw tightened. "Walked through a fire. Picked up some smoke."
Salvo smirked, teeth small and neat. "Mm. That so? My men say they saw you dragging something out of that tenement."
Ash said nothing.
Salvo tapped his pen again, the sound sharp as a metronome. "I don't care about orphans. Breakwater spits out more every week. What I care about is attention. COA's already sniffing, and people talk. They say Moreno can't keep his head clean."
Ash stayed still, let the words pass over him. He knew better than to rise.
Salvo leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His voice dropped, lower, but no less sharp. "You want to survive? Drop weight. Deliver what's yours, cut loose the rest. That's why I'm still here, and better men are gutter bones."
Ash met his gaze. "You've got your pack. You've got your cut. That's the deal."
A long silence. Rain pattered against the metal mesh over the windows. Somewhere outside, a siren wailed, then cut short.
Finally, Salvo slid the envelope across the desk. "We're square."
Ash pocketed it, turned to go.
"Moreno," Salvo called, just before he reached the door.
Ash stopped.
The fixer smiled, slow and thin. "Watch your company. The city eats enough of us without you feeding it."
Back at the diner, Mina was where he'd left her. Same booth. Same posture. The only change was another page in her sketchbook, filled top to bottom.
Ash slid into the seat across from her. "You move?"
She shook her head once.
Progress.
He glanced at the drawing. Not the soup anymore. The diner itself. Every cracked tile, the neon buzz of the sign outside reflected in the window. Even the waitress, hunched at the counter, was half-asleep.
Ash blew out a breath and rubbed his forehead.
"You don't make this easy, kid."
She went back to drawing.
His phone buzzed—another message from Salvo. Ash didn't open it. He already knew the tone: warnings dressed as advice.
He flicked the lighter, let the flame dance a second before snapping it shut.
It wasn't about the job anymore. It wasn't about Salvo, or the envelope of crumpled bills in his pocket. He'd crossed a line the moment he'd carried Mina through the smoke instead of leaving her for the COA.
And he knew it.
The diner emptied slowly, one rain-soaked drifter at a time, until it was just Mina, Ash, and the waitress muttering at the counter. The rain outside had softened to a steady hiss, the kind that blurred the edges of neon into watercolours.
Ash checked the time. He'd pushed it too long already.
"Alright," he said, sliding out of the booth. "Let's go."
Mina's pencil paused mid-line. She looked up at him like she hadn't heard.
"The shelter," Ash added. "They'll take you in. Get you a bed. Food. Clothes." He gestured for her to move.
She didn't.
The sketchbook closed with a snap, her arms wrapping around it like a shield. Her shoulders rose, stiff as wire. Her eyes flicked once toward the door, then back to him—wide, unblinking, almost pleading.
Ash exhaled, jaw tight. "Don't look at me like that."
She didn't blink. Didn't breathe, it seemed.
He leaned closer, lowered his voice. "This isn't a charity. You don't want me. Trust me on that. You'll be better off with them."
Her knuckles whitened around the sketchbook. Small tremors ran through her arms, too slight for anyone else to notice. Ash saw them.
Panic, quiet but raw.
He scrubbed a hand through his hair, muttered a curse. The smart move was to leave her. Hand her over, walk away, and finish the night with clean hands and cash. But smart moves weren't always the ones you could live with.
"Fine," he said, voice sharper than he intended. "Not tonight."
Her shoulders eased a fraction. She didn't smile. Didn't relax. Just settled back into the booth like she'd expected that outcome all along.
Ash dropped into the seat opposite, pulling his hood low. He lit the lighter, stared at the flame until it blurred, then snapped it shut.
By the time they left the diner, the streets had gone quieter. The fire was still painting the sky a dull orange far behind them, but the sirens had shifted elsewhere. Breakwater never lingered on its wounds. It just covered them with new scars.
Ash led Mina through the alleys, cutting toward a stairwell hidden behind a noodle shop. The climb was steep, slick with rain, but she followed without complaint, clutching the sketchbook to her chest.
At the top, the rooftop opened out. Corrugated tin roofs stretched across the block, patched with rust and satellite dishes. Puddles reflected the fractured skyline—towers uptown glowing like clean teeth, slums below sagging in shadow.
Ash crossed to the far ledge and sat. Mina hovered a few paces back, watching him as if waiting for permission.
"Come on," he said, patting the spot beside him.
She approached carefully, sitting cross-legged, sketchbook open again in her lap. Her pencil moved almost immediately, tracing the line of the skyline, the way the storm clouds broke around the spires.
Ash lit his lighter, held it up against the wet wind. The flame bent sideways, weak but stubborn.
"You keep looking at me like I'm supposed to have answers," he said, watching the fire dance. "I don't. I'm just trying to get through the night."
Mina didn't reply. Just sketched. The sound of graphite was soft, steady.
Ash snapped the lighter shut, pocketed it, and leaned back against the ledge. For a long while, neither of them spoke. The rain tapped around them, neon buzzed faintly in the distance, and the city rotted on.
When Mina finally tilted the sketchbook toward him, the page showed the rooftop exactly as it was: the skyline, the puddles, the two of them hunched side by side. Only—she'd drawn the flame from his lighter brighter than it had really been.
Ash looked at it, then at her. She stared back, her expression unreadable.
He huffed out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Guess you've decided already."
She didn't smile. But she didn't look away.
Ash leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring out at the city. He knew what he should do. He also knew he wouldn't. Breakwater didn't reward attachments—it weaponised them.
For the second night in a row, he realised he wasn't alone.
And that was dangerous.