Sable's stomach emptied itself onto the pavement before his brain caught up to the nausea.
He doubled over, hands braced against wet concrete, retching until there was nothing left but bile and the metallic taste of blood that kept appearing and vanishing and reappearing with each loop.
His vision swam. The world tilted sideways, then righted itself, then tilted again like reality couldn't decide which way was up.
Thirty-seven loops.
Or was it thirty-eight?
The numbers blurred together, memory stacking on memory, each death layering over the last until he couldn't remember which timeline was real and which were the ones where he'd died with the docker's blood in his mouth or the Torrent-born's claws through his chest or—
He retched again. Nothing came up.
Second landed on his shoulder, talons digging in, and pecked his ear. Hard.
"Stop—" Sable's voice came out wrecked. "I'm fine, just—"
The bird pecked him again. Harder. You're not fine. You're shaking. Focus.
"I said I'm fine—" Sable swatted at him, missed.
His hand coordination was shot. Everything felt wrong—delayed, disconnected, like his body belonged to someone else and he was just borrowing it poorly.
Second flapped in his face, screeching.
"Would you just—" Sable grabbed for the bird and missed again. "Stay in one fucking place—"
The world lurched.
For a second—just a second—he couldn't remember if this was the timeline where Second was alive or the one where the Torrent-born had crushed him.
Couldn't remember if he was standing or dying or already dead and just hadn't noticed yet.
His knees hit the pavement.
Second landed in front of him. Tilted his head. Pecked his knuckles, gentler this time.
I'm here. You're here. This is real.
Sable pressed his forehead against the wet concrete and focused on breathing. In. Out. In.
The black rain hammered down around him, each drop warm as blood, and somewhere in the distance someone was screaming—or maybe they'd been screaming for the last hour and he was only just now hearing it through the loop-echo in his skull.
Get up.
He couldn't.
Get up or die here.
His hands found purchase. Pushed. His legs remembered how standing worked.
Second launched back to his shoulder, settled in, and chirped once. Good. Now move.
Sable moved.
The street was a warzone painted in red strobes.
Bodies littered the pavement—some still twitching, some very obviously past twitching.
A woman stood in the middle of the carnage with her hands raised, and light poured from her palms, golden and searing, carving through a Torrent-born that had been advancing on a group of huddled civilians.
The creature shrieked—a sound like metal tearing—and collapsed into black ichor that steamed when it hit the ground.
The woman laughed. High. Manic. "I got light! I got fucking light!"
Sable watched her hands. They were shaking. Blistering.
The skin around her palms was already cracking, weeping clear fluid, because Borrowed Grace didn't care if your body could handle it—it just gave and expected you to figure out survival on your own.
She'd have third-degree burns in an hour. Dead from infection in three days if she didn't find antibiotics.
But for seven days, she had light.
Envy twisted in Sable's chest, sharp and bitter.
She gets light. The docker got fire. Everyone gets something except—
He looked at his hands. Empty. Useless.
The same hands that had held a scalpel for six years and never saved anyone who mattered.
The only thing the Rain had given him was the ability to watch himself fail in high definition, fifteen seconds at a time.
"Fucking generous," he muttered.
Second chirped. It sounded like agreement.
Another Torrent-born pulled itself from a collapsed storefront—smaller than the one that had killed him forty-something times, maybe human-sized, with too many joints in its arms and a face that looked like someone had melted wax and forgotten to add features.
A Torrent. Not a Dropling—those were the small ones, rat-sized, that came in swarms. Not a Deluge, which would have been building-sized and required the kind of firepower Sable definitely didn't have.
Just a Torrent. Human-sized. Intelligent enough to hunt. Dangerous enough to kill.
A man with lightning crackling around his fists charged it, screaming something incomprehensible.
The electricity arced, struck the creature's chest, and stuck—blue-white tendrils spreading across its skin like roots.
The Torrent-born stumbled. Fell.
Didn't get back up.
The man stood over it, breathing hard, and laughed. "I got lightning! You see that? I got fucking—"
A second Torrent-born dropped from the fire escape above him, landed on his shoulders, and bit through his neck before he could finish the sentence.
Sable looked away. Kept walking.
Where the fuck is the military?
The thought came with the bitter clarity of someone who'd already watched forty people die and was developing opinions about governmental response time.
Where are the Bestowed?
Not the people with Borrowed Grace—the ones who'd received their seven-day trial run and were currently discovering that superpowers didn't come with instruction manuals.
The real ones. The people who'd reached the karma threshold, who'd been given permanent Grace, who were supposed to be humanity's answer to this bullshit.
Where are they?
The Rain had been falling for—what, thirty minutes? An hour?
Time was fucked, looping and stretching and collapsing on itself, but it had been long enough for someone official to show up and start killing things.
Unless they weren't coming.
Unless the upper levels had already sealed themselves off, locked the blast doors, decided that the Dredge was acceptable collateral damage.
Wouldn't be the first time.
Sable's jaw tightened.
He grabbed Second from his shoulder, tucked the bird into his coat pocket—ignored the indignant squawking—and kept moving.
The sirens were distant. Mechanical.
The kind of sound that meant we are aware of the emergency but didn't promise anyone was actually coming to help.
A building groaned. Collapsed. Sent a plume of dust and screaming into the air.
Sable turned left, away from the collapse, toward—
He stopped.
Three men stood in a cleared area between two vendor stalls. Broad-shouldered. Well-fed. Hands loose at their sides in a way that screamed dangerous.
The same three from earlier.
And between them, pressed against the wall: the girl. Seven years old. Blonde. Grey dress. Clean ribbon now soaked with black rain.
She was crying.
Sable's hand drifted toward the scalpel that wasn't there anymore—he'd thrown it at the Torrent-born in loop seventeen or twenty-three or whenever the fuck that had been—and his fingers closed on empty pocket.
Walk away.
Not your problem.
You can't even save yourself.
His legs kept moving. Toward them. Not away.
Stupid.
Second chirped from his shoulder. Worried.
"I know," Sable muttered.
The three men didn't notice him until he was ten meters away.
Then the broad-shouldered one—Roland, the leader, the one with hands that knew how to win fights—turned and smiled.
"Well, look who survived." He sounded genuinely pleased. "Thought you'd be paste by now."
Sable stopped. Looked at their hands. All three of them.
Checking for weapons. For Grace-marks—the glowing symbols that sometimes appeared when someone received Borrowed Grace.
Nothing visible. Which meant either they hadn't gotten anything, or they'd gotten something subtle.
"You should find shelter," Sable said. Kept his voice flat. Clinical. "Rain lasts an hour. Maybe around forty minutes left. You can wait it out."
"Oh, we got a strategist." The lean one—Reeve, the stim user with twitchy fingers—grinned. "You hear that? Kid's got it all figured out."
"We got Grace," Roland said. "All three of us. You know what we got?"
Sable looked at his hands. Waited.
"Useless shit." The man's smile didn't move. "I can see in the dark. Real helpful when everything's trying to kill me.
Reeve here—" he jerked his thumb at the stim user "—can hold his breath for five minutes.
And Kade—" the third man, quiet, controlled "—can tell when people are lying."
"Congratulations," Sable said.
"Meanwhile, little Miss Ellaya here—" Roland grabbed the girl's arm, yanked her forward.
She stumbled, tried to pull away. He held tighter.
"—she got something useful. Regeneration. Fast healing. The kind of Grace that keeps you alive when everything else is trying to make you dead."
The girl whimpered.
Sable's teeth clenched. "So?"
"So we need it." Roland pulled a knife from his belt. Small. Sharp. The kind you used for cutting things that bled.
"Blood transfusion. Share the Grace. Four people survive instead of one. You understand math, right?"
Sable understood math.
He also understood that the girl was seven years old and crying and these men were going to cut her open whether she wanted to share or not.
"She's a kid," Sable said.
"She's blessed." Roland pressed the knife against the girl's forearm. Not cutting yet. Just threatening.
"And she's being selfish. We asked nice. She said no. Now we're not asking."
The girl's eyes found Sable's. Brown. Terrified. Please.
Walk away.
This isn't your fight.
You'll just die and loop and die and loop and—
"Wait." Sable took a step forward. Raised his hands. Non-threatening. Reasonable.
"Just—think about this. You cut her, she bleeds out. Kids don't have much blood to spare. You kill her trying to take what's she's got, and then nobody survives. Right?"
Roland tilted his head. "Kid's got a point, Reeve."
Reeve spat. "Fuck that. We take what we need. She heals. That's the whole point of regeneration."
"Except she's seven," Sable pressed. "You think she understands how her Grace works? You think she can control it?
You cut too deep, she panics, her body doesn't heal fast enough—congratulations, you just murdered a kid and got nothing."
Kade spoke for the first time. "He's not lying."
Roland paused. Looked at Kade. "You sure?"
"He believes what he's saying."
"Doesn't mean he's right."
"No," Kade agreed. "But he's not lying."
The knife pulled back. Slightly.
The girl's shoulders sagged.
Sable let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Look. Rain stops in forty minutes. You find shelter, wait it out, you survive. No one has to—"
Roland grabbed the girl's arm again and cut.
Not deep. Just enough. Blood welled, black in the red strobe light.
The girl screamed.
Sable's hand moved on instinct—grabbed Roland's wrist, tried to pull the knife away—
The man's other hand snapped up, palm-strike to Sable's chest, and suddenly he was flying. Hit the wall. Hard.
His skull cracked against brick and the world went white, then grey, then—
He was on the ground. The girl was still screaming.
The three men were holding her down, cutting her arm open, filling a plastic bottle with blood that steamed in the Rain.
No.
No no no—
Regret flooded through him, sharp and visceral—not for dying, but for failing. For trying to be reasonable with people who'd already decided reason didn't matter.
Reality inverted.
Fifteen seconds earlier.
Sable stood ten meters away. The three men hadn't noticed him yet. The girl was crying but unharmed.
His hands shook.
Second chirped on his shoulder. Questioning.
"Different approach," Sable muttered.
He walked forward. "Wait."
The three men turned.
"I know what you want," Sable said. Kept his voice steady. Reasonable. "I've been there. I've begged someone to share their Grace during the Rain. I get it. Survival isn't pretty."
Roland's eyes narrowed. "So?"
"So I'm saying there's a better way." Sable looked at the girl. Back at them. "I'm a doctor. Or—I was training to be one. I know how blood transfusions work.
You do this wrong, you kill her and yourselves. Blood types matter. Volume matters. You can't just—"
"We don't have time for a fucking lecture," Reeve snarled.
"Then don't waste time cutting a kid when there's better options." Sable met Roland's eyes. Held them. Dropped his gaze to the man's hands.
"Find someone with a combat Grace. Someone already fighting. They die, you take their blood. They're dead anyway. The kid lives. You get what you need. Everyone wins."
Kade spoke quietly. "He's lying."
Sable's stomach dropped.
"Not about the blood part," Kade continued. "But he doesn't actually think we'll do it. He's stalling."
Roland's smile returned. "Smart kid. Stalling. Thinking maybe someone shows up to save the day."
He stepped toward Sable. "No one's coming. You know that, right? Upper levels locked down thirty minutes ago. We're on our own."
The knife came up.
"Wait—"
The blade sank into Sable's stomach. Cold. Sharp. Burning.
He looked down. Watched blood—his blood, real blood—pour over Roland's knuckles.
"Should've walked away," Roland said.
Sable's knees hit the ground.
Behind them, the girl was still screaming.
Regret—not for dying, but for failing again—
Reality inverted.
"I've got Grace," Sable blurted.
The three men paused. Turned.
"Strong Grace," Sable continued. "I can share it. You don't need the kid. You need me."
Roland's eyes narrowed. "What kind?"
"Sovereign-level."
Silence.
Then Reeve laughed. "Bullshit. No one gets Sovereign from Borrowed Grace. That's—that's permanent Grace. Bestowed-level minimum."
"I'm telling you what I've got." Sable kept his hands raised. "You want it or not?"
"Show us," Roland said.
Fuck.
"I—I can't just activate it on command—"
"Then you're lying." The knife appeared. "Kade?"
"Lying," Kade confirmed.
Roland moved. Fast. The knife went for Sable's throat this time—quicker, more efficient—
He died choking on his own blood.
Regret—
Reality inverted.
Loop thirty-eight.
Sable stood fifteen seconds before contact. His hands had stopped shaking. Not from calm. From exhaustion so complete his nervous system had given up trying to warn him about danger.
The three men were talking to each other. Casual. Relaxed.
The way people talked when they'd already decided someone else's suffering was an acceptable price for their survival.
Sable had heard that tone before.
In his own voice.
Six years ago. The scholarship exam.
The memory came unbidden. Sharp. Clear. Like his mind was trying to show him something he'd been avoiding for half a decade.
The group home. Third floor. Marcus standing in Sable's doorway at 9 PM the night before the exam.
"Hey. Sorry to bother you. I know it's late."
Sable had looked up from his textbook. Chapter 9. Organic Chemistry. Formulas he'd already memorized three days ago.
"What's up?"
"Could I borrow your textbook? Just for a few hours." Marcus had smiled. Apologetic. Tired. "I'm blanking on Chapter 9. The formulas. I just need to review them once more."
Three seats. Seven applicants.
One of them was Marcus. Quiet, brilliant, foster system like Sable.
They'd studied together for six months. Shared notes. Split the cost of a practice test neither of them could really afford.
Promised they'd both make it.
Sable had looked at the textbook in his hands. At Marcus's face. At the desperation hidden behind the apologetic smile.
And he'd calculated.
If Marcus passed…
That was one less seat.
One less chance for Sable to escape.
The group home. The Dredge. The life that ground you down until there was nothing left but survival instinct and the hollow place where hope used to be.
Marcus was smart. Maybe smarter than Sable. If he reviewed Chapter 9…
"I need it tonight," Sable had said. The words came out easy. Practiced. "I'm still going over some sections. Sorry."
Marcus's face had fallen. Just for a second. Then he'd smiled again. Wider this time. Faker.
"Yeah. No problem. I get it. Good luck tomorrow."
He'd walked away.
Sable had closed the door.
Had sat back down with the textbook.
Had stared at Chapter 9—at formulas he could recite in his sleep—and told himself it was the smart play. The necessary play.
Had told himself Marcus would be fine.
The exam results came three days later.
Marcus: 494. Needed 500.
Sable: 512.
Six points.
Sable had gotten his seat. His scholarship. His way out.
Two months later, he'd heard Marcus died in a Dredge collapse. Working maintenance on Level 8 because without that scholarship, maintenance was all the Dredge offered.
Sable had felt bad about it.
For maybe a week.
Then he'd moved on. Because that's what you did when you made the smart play. The efficient play. The play that kept you alive.
You survived.
And you told yourself it wasn't your fault.
Sable looked at the three men.
At the way they stood around Ellaya, calculating, discussing logistics like she was a resource instead of a person.
The same way Sable had looked at Marcus's borrowed textbook and seen competition instead of a friend.
The same way he'd looked at the girl from Block 17—eight years old, tumor eating through her spine—and seen documentation opportunity instead of a patient who deserved someone to actually try something, risk something, be anything other than the coward who watched from a safe distance and wrote it down.
The same way he'd looked at Second, drowning in poison water three weeks ago, and almost walked away because saving things was hard and he was tired of wasting energy on lost causes.
I'm them.
The realization hit like a fist to the chest.
I'm exactly like them.
Sable's hands curled into fists. His nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
"No," he whispered.
Second chirped from his shoulder. Questioning.
"I'm—" His voice cracked. "I'm just like them. I'm worse than them because I know better and I do it anyway."
The bird chirped again. Insistent.
Sable hold second gently. Held him in his palm. Looked at the small grey shape that had every reason to give up, to fly away, to find someone less broken to attach itself to.
But Second kept coming back.
Even when Sable didn't deserve it.
"People like me," Sable said quietly, "shouldn't get to choose."
Second tilted his head.
"We've proven we'll make the wrong choice. Every time. Not because we're evil. Because we're efficient."
The word came out bitter. Poisonous. "We calculate. We optimize. We see the path that keeps us alive and we take it, no matter who we have to step over."
He looked at the three men again.
"Marcus asked for help. I said no. Efficient. The girl from Block 17 needed treatment. I documented her death. Efficient. Second was drowning. I almost walked away. Would have been efficient."
His jaw tightened.
"And these three—they're just doing the same math. One girl dies, three men live. Efficient. Smart. Survival."
He put Second back on his shoulder.
"They're me. I'm them."
His voice dropped. Went cold. Hard.
"And the world would be better if people like us just disappeared. Not because we're evil. Because we're COWARDS. We know the right choice. We see it clearly. And we pick the easy one. Every. Single. Time."
He looked at his hands. At the way they shook. Not from fear. From rage. At himself. At them. At everyone who'd ever chosen survival over sacrifice.
"I can't fix me," he said. "But I can fix them."
He picked up a rock from the rubble. Fist-sized. Heavy. The kind of weight that could cave a skull if you swung hard enough.
"Not as punishment. As… mercy. For the world. For everyone who has to deal with people like us."
Second chirped. Understanding. Or maybe just accepting that this was happening whether he approved or not.
"When I move," Sable said, voice flat and cold, "you go for eyes. Kade first. The quiet one. He's the problem."
The bird chirped once. Agreement.
And for the first time in thirty-seven loops, Sable didn't feel regret about what he was going to do.
He felt clarity.
He walked forward. No preamble. No warning.
Just movement.
"Hey—" Roland started.
Sable swung.