The room smelled of antiseptic and soot.
Lethe lay on a narrow cot, mask still in place, black horns curved like frozen shadows. The doctor worked alone, gloves tight over scarred hands, eyes scanning the boy, whispering under his breath.
Outside, Starless sat on a threadbare sofa, arms wrapped around his bandaged feet. He didn't move much. Tired had hollowed him out, and quiet pressed down like a velvet curtain.
Minutes passed.
Then the doctor stepped out.
Starless smiled, relief spilling softly across his face. Lethe was alive. Safe.
The doctor's voice broke the spell.
"He didn't get the breathing cure," he said quietly. "Not yet. He has… four to six hours at best before it's too late."
The room seemed to hold its breath, the fairytale light from the single window catching dust motes that drifted like frozen fire.
Starless froze. The smile lingered—tiny, fragile—but his chest ached with the weight of the hours to come.
Starless looked down, shoulders still tense, but his voice was calm, quieter than the fear in the room.
"Oh," he said simply, as if the weight of the hours had made him small enough to speak without shouting.
He bit his lip, hard, and a thin line of blood appeared. He frowned at it for a moment, then wiped it away on the edge of his sleeve. The action was quiet, deliberate. Controlled.
"Do you… have a cure?" he asked, eyes steady, voice even.
The doctor's gaze didn't waver. "Yes."
Starless's lips curved into a slow, careful smile—small, fragile, but real. Not relief. Not victory. Just the understanding that there was a chance.
"You'll give it to him?" he asked, soft but firm, leaning just slightly forward.
The doctor's reply cut through the room like steel. "No."
Starless exhaled once. Long. Quiet. Not a shout. Not a tremble. Just breath.
"I see," he said calmly, almost conversational. "Fair enough. I can't argue with that. Doesn't make it any less… unfair."
The silence stretched. Starless tilted his head, thinking, letting the unfairness settle like a stone in his chest.
"I'll take care of the time he has left, then," he added. "Even if it's not much. That's… what I can do."
His small smile lingered, edged with resolve, as he stared at the still form of Lethe, hands folded neatly over his bandaged feet, steady in the quiet weight of the room.
Hours later, Lethe stirred. The faint light from the window caught the black horns of his mask. Starless sat beside him, leaning forward slightly, his tired smile gentle and steady.
"Feeling good now?" Starless asked, voice low, careful.
Lethe's gaze dropped immediately to Starless's bloodied hands. They were raw from dragging, knuckles split, streaked with old mud and fresh red. He blinked behind the mask, silent, almost questioning.
"How… did you—?" Lethe's voice broke slightly, the words caught in the mask.
Starless looked down, avoiding the question, a slight nod toward the door. The message was clear: it's time to leave.
The truth pressed behind his teeth like iron. Hours earlier, when the doctor refused, Starless had acted. He had punched. Brutally. Knocked the man out cold. The violence had been necessary, swift, merciless, leaving the doctor alive but unconscious on the floor.
Panic had followed immediately. He couldn't afford mistakes. He tore through the doctor's small house, searching. Every shelf, every crate, every dark corner.
Then he found it: a notebook. Pages scribbled with hypotheses, chemical ratios, diagrams of lungs, notes about the Zone's poisonous air and ways to survive it. Starless's pulse raced as he absorbed the method—the cure could exist if applied correctly.
An hour later, he located the vials. Two bottles. Carefully measured, trembling hands steady now from focus. He injected Lethe with the goo, watching for any sign of distress. Slowly, the mask rose slightly as the first deep breath came easier, lungs adapting to the stench of the Zone.
The notebook had explained everything: the cure helped the lungs survive, even thrive, against the rotting, choking air. Adaptation, endurance, survival.
He had found ten doses. Two went to Lethe. Eight he took. They remained untouched but ready.
Lethe's breathing steadied, steady and alive. Starless exhaled, silent, sitting back, letting the quiet hum of the reclaimed room settle around them. The doctor remained unconscious, the cost of survival weighed against time and morality—but alive.
For now, that was enough.
Lethe's voice was soft, quiet, almost a whisper as they walked back to the abandoned house.
"Thanks," he said. The words felt strange on him—almost fragile—but real.
Starless said nothing. He just watched.
He followed Lethe inside, settling into a shadowed corner, eyes tracing the way the boy moved—precise, controlled, even in exhaustion. The mask hid everything, but Starless could feel the tension coiled under it, the careful weight of someone who had survived more than most.
After a moment, he asked, low and thoughtful, "How… how do people survive here without the cure?"
Lethe didn't answer immediately. He fiddled with the edge of his robe, shifted his weight, and glanced toward the window.
Starless didn't push. Not yet.
Finally, Lethe spoke, voice guarded. "Some… manage. Some don't."
The words were sharp, vague, designed to deflect. Starless only nodded.
Then Lethe stood, moving toward the exit. Starless followed, silently.
It took effort, climbing over piles of scrap and metal, dragging their way through the chaotic heart of the Zone.
At last, they reached the top.
A cliff of trash rose before them—a massive, heaving mound, impossibly high, jagged and dangerous. Starless and Lethe scrambled to the summit. Each step slid, each movement grated against sharp edges, but they reached the top.
Below them stretched a massive expanse of the Zone, alive with motion. Wild Zone inhabitants moved like ants, carrying bundles, dragging debris, tending fires. The work was relentless. The people's backs bent, hands blistered, arms raw. Shouts carried over the din, orders barked, punishment dealt instantly to those who faltered.
"Look," Lethe said quietly, tilting his head, voice almost casual over the roar below. "That's the point system."
Starless squinted, trying to follow his gaze.
"Points?"
Lethe's eyes narrowed beneath the mask. "Work hard. Complete tasks. Survive. Accumulate points. Enough points, and you're allowed the cure—sometimes. Food, water, even limited time inside the city. The Gate decides. No points… no nothing. You fall behind, you rot."
He let the words hang, letting Starless take in the scale of it—the cruelty, the order, the relentless machinery of survival.
Starless said nothing. He just observed, stomach tightening. The Zone was alive, monstrous and unforgiving, and the point system was the heartbeat keeping it running.
Starless stood on the edge of the cliff, shoulders tense, watching.
The Zone sprawled below, alive and cruel. People bent and twisted under the weight of work, shouting and screaming into the air, fists raised or dragging debris like beasts. Guards moved among them, sharp, laughing, eyes cruel, enjoying every falter, every mistake.
A hot anger rose in Starless's chest. Not just for himself—but for everyone being twisted into survival machines, the Zone shaping them, breaking them, demanding more than any human should give.
He didn't move. Didn't shout. Didn't intervene. Just watched. Slowly. Methodically. Letting the brutality sink in, letting the laughter of the guards gnaw at his stomach.
Then he sighed, deep and hollow.
He turned and dropped to the ground, sitting hard on the edge. Lethe joined him, careful, mask still in place.
"Are you okay, Starless?" Lethe asked softly.
"Yeah," Starless said, simple, quiet.
He raised his hands toward the gray morning sky, letting the anger and frustration pour upward, unseen and unclaimed.
"Lethe," he murmured, voice trembling just a little. "I want freedom. Will… will we ever survive and leave this place?"
Lethe didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept the sprawling Zone below, silent.
"Probably not," he said finally, calm, almost resigned.
Starless lowered his hands. The wind caught in his hair. He exhaled, letting the weight of the Zone press down.
Starless turned toward Lethe, the gray light of the Zone catching the curve of his tired face.
Slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips.
He raised a fist.
Lethe looked at it for a long moment, mask hiding his expression, but then he lifted his own.
Their fists met.
A sharp, quiet knock that somehow felt like a promise.
And then, unexpectedly, they laughed.
First quiet, uncertain. Then louder. The sound spilled over the cliff, cutting through the hum of the Zone below.
It was laughter that didn't erase the pain, didn't undo the suffering. But it reminded them, even if just for a moment, that they were still alive. Still themselves.
Still able to choose how to face it.
The office smelled of blood, antiseptic, and burnt metal.
The doctor sat hunched over a small mirror, hands trembling as he wrapped a bandage across the bridge of his nose. He muttered curses under his breath, each one sharp, biting, aimed at the boy who had knocked him out hours ago.
The door creaked open.
A girl stepped inside. Masked, pink hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes glinting with mischief and malice. She moved with ease, casual but confident, like the world had no weight on her at all. Her smirk was sharp, teasing.
"Hmm," she said, tilting her head, voice cocky, rich with mockery. "I was told by a little birdie that the great doctor got the cure all solved up."
The doctor froze, fingers clutching the bandage like it could shield him.
"You must know, Doc," she continued, stepping closer, boots tapping against the floor, "fate's a bitch for letting me hear that."
She circled him slowly, mask hiding every subtle movement, smirk still in place.
"And why am I here?" she asked lightly, almost bored.
"Y-you—you wouldn't…" the doctor stammered, eyes wide. "Please—please don't—"
She tilted her head, amused. "I'm simply here to kill you."
The doctor's knees threatened to buckle. "I-I can give you anything… just don't—please!"
She laughed softly, almost kindly, and shook her head. "It would have happened sooner or later, old man. You knew that."
Her boots clicked softly on the floor as she walked past him, searching, examining, precise.
Forty minutes later, the house was silent but tense.
The girl stood in the center of the office, arms crossed, mask tilted slightly. She exhaled sharply, frustrated.
"No cure. No notebook. Where could this old man have hidden it?"
Her hands curled into fists. She turned on the doctor, who shrank back into a corner, eyes darting, pale and broken.
"Don't tell me he's hiding secrets from me," she muttered under her breath, voice low and dangerous. "Not this time."
The woman's punch hit him like a hammer. The old man stumbled back, teeth gritting.
"Where is the cure?!" she demanded, voice sharp, deadly.
He paused. Thought about it.
What would he gain by telling her the truth? Nothing. She was one of the guards—she would kill him regardless. Secrets meant nothing to someone like her.
The doctor straightened, forced a calmness over his shaking hands.
"First… a smoke," he said, voice rough but steady.
He scanned the office, mind racing. That's when he noticed it: a can of spray adhesive on the desk, a gas duster tucked in a drawer. Small, harmless-seeming—but both packed flammable difluoroethane and butane. Easier to ignite than natural gas, and perfect for what he had in mind.
The setup was simple. He cracked the valve on a propane heater nearby, letting gas seep quietly across the room. Then he taped the aerosol can so it sprayed a constant mist into the leak.
"One spark," he muttered to himself. "Just enough heat to start it."
He lit his cigarette. Took a deep drag, the cherry glowing white-hot. The science was simple: the aerosol acted as a pilot light, igniting instantly, carrying flame into the gas. The mixture—propane plus vaporized aerosol—was unstable, fast, and deadly.
Flick.
Flame erupted, roaring through the office. The air ignited like a torch, the walls trembling.
Without hesitation, the doctor jumped through the window. He landed hard on the rubble below, limping fast, breath ragged, carrying nothing but himself.
Behind him, the office detonated in a controlled chaos of fire and smoke, secrets and danger swallowed in the blaze.
Flames ripped through the office, smoke curling like living things, but the woman didn't scream something moved.
The old man's eyes widened from afar. She had survived.
A mechanical suit—liquid metal shifting over her body like water made armor—activated in a microsecond, shielding her from fire and debris. Sparks ran across the surface, illuminating her pink hair and glinting mask.
She launched herself from the inferno, leaping over shards of metal and splintered wood with terrifying speed, boots striking the ground like thunder.
Her voice cut through the smoke, cold and merciless.
"You think fire can stop me? I will burn this city down for you, old man… and I'll find you first."
She moved faster than the eye could follow, each step precise, predatory, unstoppable. The roar of the fire behind her was nothing compared to the sound of her fury.