Jin lasted three more days.
Not three full days—not clean ones. They came in fragments, like frostbitten hours stitched together by brief moments of painful clarity. Moments where Jin remembered names. Remembered jokes he used to repeat until everyone groaned. Remembered the anger he felt toward the Ministry, sharp and focused enough to cut through the haze.
And then those moments vanished.
They always vanished.
In their place came long stretches of hollow silence, where Jin's eyes followed movements that didn't exist, lips murmuring half-formed sentences to no one. Sometimes he flinched as if something whispered directly into his ear. Other times he stared at the ceiling, unblinking, pupils dilated, breath slow and shallow—like he was already halfway somewhere else.
Kael never left.
He sat on the floor beside Jin's bed, back pressed against cold metal walls that never truly warmed no matter how much fire burned in the station. He kept his flames suppressed so tightly that it hurt—kept them folded inward, restrained, compressed into something sharp and aching in his chest.
Every instinct screamed at him to burn.
To fix.
To tear the degradation out by force.
He could feel it inside Jin—fractures spreading through his cognitive lattice like cracks in ice. If Kael closed his eyes, he could almost see them. His ability wanted to break the process down, reassemble it, override it.
But force was what put them here.
Force was what the Freezer used.
So Kael stayed still. And he watched his friend disappear by inches.
On the second night, Jin forgot Kael's name.
On the third, he remembered it again—and cried because he couldn't remember why it mattered.
Kael held his hand anyway.
Jin laughed on the fourth night.
It was sudden. Sharp. Completely out of place.
Kael's head snapped up instantly. His heart spiked with hope so violent it hurt. "What?" he asked.
Jin turned his head slowly toward him.
His eyes were clear.
Too clear.
For a terrifying moment, it felt like Jin was fully back—like the nightmare had receded, like they'd been wrong about the timelines, the inevitability, the prognosis.
"I figured it out," Jin said.
Kael pushed himself to his feet. "Figured what out?"
"The cold," Jin said calmly. His voice was steady—unnervingly so. "The cold doesn't hum."
Kael froze.
"It sings," Jin continued, lips twitching into a small smile. "And I've been singing back."
The hope in Kael's chest curdled into nausea.
"That's… that's not real," Kael said carefully, each word chosen like stepping stones over thin ice. "You know that, right?"
Jin nodded immediately. "I know."
Silence stretched between them.
The station creaked softly as pressure shifted somewhere deep below. The distant thrum of generators echoed like a heartbeat.
Jin's smile faded.
"That's how I know," he whispered, voice barely audible, "that it's almost over."
The system pulsed.
Once.
Hard.
[ALERT: ALLIED UNRANKABLE — IRREVERSIBLE COGNITIVE COLLAPSE IMMINENT]
[TIME TO TOTAL DISSOLUTION: ESTIMATED < 3 HOURS]
Kael squeezed his eyes shut.
"No," he said. "No, no—"
The system offered no alternative. No branching path. No miracle clause.
This wasn't an event.
This was reality.
Jin's hand shot out, gripping Kael's wrist with shocking strength. His fingers were cold—too cold, like he'd been pulled back toward the Freezer no matter how far they ran.
"Hey," Jin said softly.
Kael opened his eyes.
Jin was looking at him. Really looking at him. Not through him. Not past him.
Present.
"Promise," Jin said.
The word hung between them like a blade.
Kael's throat burned. His fire surged instinctively, cracking the floor beneath them in spiderweb fractures.
"There has to be another way," Kael said hoarsely. "I can— I can break it down. I can—"
Jin shook his head gently. "You know that's not true."
Kael clenched his fists. "I just haven't figured it out yet."
Jin smiled—soft, sad, unbearably familiar. "You have. You just don't want it to be real."
Kael's vision blurred.
"I hate this," he whispered.
"Good," Jin said. "Don't stop."
He inhaled slowly, deliberately—like he was savoring the sensation while he still could.
"Do it before I forget why I'm asking."
The system remained silent.
It wouldn't make this choice for him.
Kael stared at Jin—his first partner in the Freezer, the one who dragged him out of his own mind when the cold tried to hollow him out. The one who taught him how to anchor fire without losing himself. The one who joked that they'd outlive the Ministry just to spite them.
Something inside Kael tore clean in half.
He raised his hand.
Fire bloomed.
Not wild. Not violent. Not cruel.
It was precise. Controlled. Almost gentle.
A warmth meant to end something—not punish it.
Jin closed his eyes.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Kael burned.
When it was over, the room was warm for the first time since Ashfall had claimed the station.
The warmth lingered—faint, residual, like an echo.
Kael didn't cry.
He just sat there, fire extinguished, hands shaking, staring at the empty space where Jin had been.
Something essential had left him.
And it wasn't coming back.
Lyra found him hours later.
He hadn't moved.
The station lights had dimmed to their lowest cycle. The air smelled faintly of scorched metal and sterilization agents.
She didn't speak.
She just sat beside him, shoulder brushing his, grounding him without demanding anything in return.
Eventually, Kael said, "I kept my promise."
Lyra's jaw tightened. "I know."
He let out a short, bitter laugh. "I thought revenge would feel clearer."
She shook her head slowly. "Revenge isn't clarity."
He looked at her. "Then what is it?"
"Direction."
Kael turned fully toward her. "And where does it lead?"
Lyra met his gaze. Her eyes were steady, fierce—and underneath it all, afraid.
"Wherever you're willing to keep walking," she said.
The distance between them vanished.
Kael leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, just as she had done weeks ago when words failed him.
This time, neither pulled away.
Their lips brushed—hesitant, searching—before Kael stopped.
"I'm not safe," he said quietly.
Lyra smiled sadly. "None of us are."
She kissed him anyway.
It was brief.
Uncertain.
And it hurt far more than it soothed.
The second storm arrived before dawn.
Her name was Seris Vale.
Former government analyst. Civilian. No fire training.
She found Ashfall.
Seris stood at the station entrance with her hands raised, coat torn, eyes sharp despite the tremor in her fingers.
"You're hiding Unrankables," she said. "And Post-Rankers."
Mira blinked. "How did you—"
"I helped write the tracking algorithms," Seris cut in. "Before I realized what they were really for."
Kael stepped forward, studying her.
"And now?" he asked.
Seris swallowed. "Now I want to burn it all down."
She met his gaze without flinching.
"I know where the Freezer satellites are," she continued. "I know where they keep the families."
The word hit Kael like a physical blow.
"…Families?" he repeated.
Seris nodded. "Leverage assets. Wagers. Incentives."
The system pulsed faintly.
Kael's fire surged uncontrollably, scorching the air.
"My parents," he said slowly. "My sister."
Seris held his gaze. "Alive. For now."
Something dark and cold settled behind Kael's eyes.
Lyra stepped between them slightly. "Why help us?"
Seris exhaled shakily. "Because I watched a man beg to be erased from a list so his daughter wouldn't be taken."
Silence followed.
Kael turned away, jaw clenched.
"They're using them to control us," he said. "Even after the Freezer."
Seris nodded. "And if you don't act soon, they'll move them."
Kael's hands trembled.
Save them.
Or burn the system down first.
The contradiction split him down the middle.
That night, Kael stood alone at the edge of the city.
Fire danced dangerously close to the surface.
The system finally spoke.
[EVENT QUEUE UPDATED]
[NEXT UNLOCK CONDITION: DIRECT CONFLICT WITH POST-RANKER COMMAND UNIT]
Kael laughed quietly.
"So that's it," he murmured. "More blood."
Behind him, Lyra and Seris stood on opposite sides—one bound by shared suffering, the other by shared guilt.
Two lives.
Two paths.
Both pulling at him.
Kael stared into the night sky, where Ministry satellites glinted faintly like watchful eyes.
"I won't let them decide anymore," he said softly.
Not who lives.
Not who breaks.
Not who burns.
And somewhere deep inside—beneath fire, fracture, and loss—
Something irreversible had begun.