January 28, 2059 –
Abandoned church basement, South Side Chicago
Three days after the rail yard fight. Wounds are fresh, tempers raw.
Elijah sits against the wall, jaw swollen purple, ice pack pressed to it. Blood crusts the corner of his mouth. He hasn't slept.
Maya changes Kenji's bandage—gauze dark again, cheek stitched crooked but holding. She winces with every breath, ribs grinding.
Aisha tests her shredded arm, skin raw and weeping under fresh wrap. Prosthetic lies disassembled on a crate, Jonah soldering new wiring by lantern light.
Malik floats a water bottle to Amara without looking—gravity steady but eyes distant, collarbone splinted, breathing shallow.
Kayden sits alone, illusions flickering unconsciously: phantom contractors bleeding out on the floor, then gone.
No one talks about the dead man Malik left behind.
Jonah breaks the silence. "Delphine's convoy hit snow in Kentucky. Delayed two days."
Elijah nods. The wait gnaws worse than pain.
Aisha flexes her good hand. "We're sitting ducks. Supplies low. Morale lower."
Maya ties off Kenji's bandage. "We heal. We plan. We hold."
Kenji grunts. "Holding's harder than running."
Malik lowers himself to the floor. "I killed him."
The room stills.
Amara looks up from Mr. Raffi. "He was gonna hurt us."
Malik's voice cracks. "Still dead."
Elijah finally speaks, words thick around swollen jaw. "We all carry that now."
Kayden's illusion steadies—small golden flame dancing in his palm, Maya's light mirrored.
"I almost made it worse again," he says quietly.
Kenji reaches over, hand on his cousin's shoulder.
Outside, wind rattles the boards.
Inside, they sit with the weight—blood on hands, delays on the road, a mother coming with more to protect.
Elijah closes his eyes.
Three days became five.
The war waits for no one.
But neither do they.