Four days had passed since the nuclear strike.
Four days of healing. Of testimony. Of the world learning what horrors the government had created.
Four days of Nana and Zayne slowly recovering—physically mending while their minds struggled to process everything that had happened.
The military helicopter returned from Linkon on Day 18.
The entire district gathered to hear the report, hundreds of survivors and evacuees crowding the plaza, desperate for news. Maybe some buildings had survived. Maybe some people had made it to bunkers. Maybe *something* remained of the city they'd called home.
The military officer's face said everything before he spoke.
"Linkon City is gone," he announced, voice heavy. "Complete destruction. The nuclear strike vaporized the entire island. No structures remain. No creatures survived. The radiation levels are..." He paused. "It will be uninhabitable for at least fifty years."
Silence.
Heavy, devastating silence.
"The hospital?" someone called out—a nurse from Akso, one of the few who'd evacuated early.
"Gone."
"The Hunter Association headquarters?"
"Gone."
"The residential districts? The schools? The—"
"All gone." The officer's jaw clenched. "There is nothing left to see. Nothing to salvage. Nothing to return to. Linkon City... no longer exists."
A woman collapsed, sobbing. Others followed. The sound of collective grief filled the plaza—hundreds of people mourning the loss of home, of normalcy, of everything.
Nana stood at the edge of the crowd, staring at the sky.
Grey clouds. Same as always. But they felt different now. Heavier. Like the world itself was mourning.
Akso Hospital where Zayne had worked—gone. Vaporized in nuclear fire. Every patient he'd tried to save in those final desperate days. Every colleague who'd fought beside him. Every memory of sterile halls and surgical precision.
Just... ash.
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Bloomshore District looked eerily similar to Linkon.
Same architecture. Same street layouts. Same kind of city that Linkon had been before everything fell apart.
It made the grief worse. Made every corner feel like a ghost of home. Made survivors stop and stare at familiar-looking buildings that weren't the buildings they remembered.
The skeletal Avalon survivors were slowly gaining strength.
Their enhanced metabolisms—the modifications forced on them during their time in the death realm—were helping them recover faster than normal humans. Weight returning. Color in their faces. Eyes less haunted.
But the memories were returning too.
And that was worse.
Nana watched from the medical tent as a woman collapsed screaming, clutching her head, remembering. Remembering Avalon. Remembering dying over and over. Remembering being hunted by creatures and fighting for survival and losing count of how many times she'd been reborn.
The woman's family tried to comfort her but she just screamed louder.
"IT WAS REAL! IT WAS REAL! WHY DID THEY DO THIS TO US?!"
Another survivor broke down nearby—a young man, maybe twenty, crying so hard he couldn't breathe. His memories had returned all at once. Three years in Avalon. Dying forty-seven times. Coming back to the real world to find his entire family had been killed in the Linkon outbreak.
Home destroyed. Memories traumatic. Future uncertain.
Some survivors couldn't handle it. Couldn't process the grief and trauma and rage at what had been done to them.
Some moved away with their families, trying to start over in new cities where nothing reminded them of Avalon or Linkon.
Some stayed in Bloomshore, too broken to leave, waiting for the district government to figure out housing and support for thousands of displaced people.
The evacuation zone had become a permanent refugee camp.
Zayne and his parents still volunteered every day—treating wounded soldiers, helping survivors process their trauma, providing medical care to people who had nothing left.
Nana watched Zayne work from across the tent.
He moved with the same precise grace he'd always had. Checking vitals. Administering medication. Speaking softly to patients who were too traumatized to respond. His ice evol was under control now—no more unintentional frost spreading when he panicked.
His parents worked beside him. Dr. William and Dr. Sophia, just as skilled, just as compassionate. They'd adapted to their son's enhanced status with remarkable acceptance. Never treated him differently. Never looked at him with fear.
Just... loved him.
The way parents should.
Nana felt something twist in her chest.
*My parents turned me into a weapon. His parents just want him to be happy.*
The difference was devastating.
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The monument was simple.
A stone pillar erected in Bloomshore's central plaza, inscribed with words that tried and failed to capture the magnitude of loss:
IN MEMORY OF LINKON CITY
AND ALL WHO CALLED IT HOME
MAY WE NEVER FORGET
Thousands of flowers surrounded it. Offerings from survivors and evacuees and people who'd lost loved ones in the strike. Lilies and roses and carnations in every color, piled so high they nearly obscured the stone.
Nana approached in the evening, when the crowds had thinned.
She carried a single white daisy—simple, small, insufficient. But it was all she had.
She knelt at the monument and placed the flower carefully among the others.
*For my parents,* she thought. *Even though they hurt me. Even though they made me a weapon. They were still my parents.*
*For Mina, who might still be out there somewhere.*
*For Jisu and every other Avalon survivor who didn't make it to evacuation.*
*For Captain Jenna who opened the escape route even knowing it would kill her.*
*For every person who died in the facility fire.*
*For the Hunter Association colleagues who feared me but still fought beside me.*
*For Linkon itself. The city that raised me. The home I'll never see again.*
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
She wiped it away quickly, looking around to make sure no one saw. But more tears followed. Silent. Unstoppable.
Because she'd lost everything.
Her parents—dead in the facility fire.
Her home—vaporized in nuclear strike.
Her identity—Specimen 21, not fully human, enhanced from birth to be a weapon.
Even her memories weren't fully hers. The facility had modified her brain chemistry to optimize combat performance. Had rewired her emotional responses to prioritize mission success over personal attachment.
She didn't even know if the love she felt was real or just programming.
*What even am I anymore?*
Hands closed gently on her shoulders.
Zayne.
He'd finished at the medical tent and come looking for her. Found her kneeling at the memorial, crying silently, surrounded by thousands of flowers for a city that no longer existed.
He didn't say anything. Just pulled her into his chest, wrapped his arms around her, and held her while she cried.
Around them, evening fell. The sky turned purple-grey. And slowly, the ceremony began.
Families gathered with floating lanterns—paper and bamboo, holding candles inside. Traditional memorials for the dead. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands, lighting up the plaza with warm golden light.
One by one, people released their lanterns into the sky.
They floated upward, carrying prayers and grief and love for the lost. Carrying memories of Linkon City before it became a death realm. Carrying hope that somehow, somewhere, the dead were at peace.
Zayne held Nana and watched the lanterns rise.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against her hair. "I'm so sorry for everything you lost."
Nana shook her head. "You lost just as much."
"Not the same. I had parents who loved me. You had parents who—"
"Who made me a weapon," Nana finished bitterly. "Who experimented on me from birth. Who threw me into Avalon to test me. Who died before I could even ask them *why*."
She pulled back to look at Zayne's face. "You lost your home, your career, your normal life. But you had choice. You became Version 06 by accident. I was designed to be Specimen 21. I never had a choice."
Zayne cupped her face gently. "You have choices now. About who you want to be. What you want to do. How you want to live."
"Do I?" Nana's voice cracked. "I'm enhanced. Modified. Not fully human. The government will always see me as a specimen. People will always fear me. I don't even know if my emotions are real or just programming—"
"They're real," Zayne said firmly. "I know they're real because I've seen you *choose* them. Seen you choose compassion over violence. Seen you choose to protect people who feared you. Seen you choose love even when it hurt."
He pressed his forehead to hers. "You're not a weapon, Nana. You're a person who was turned into a weapon. But you're choosing to be something else. Choosing to heal instead of destroy. Choosing to hope instead of giving up."
Nana closed her eyes, more tears falling. "What if I don't know how to be anything except a weapon?"
"Then we'll figure it out together," Zayne promised. "However long it takes."
Above them, thousands of lanterns floated into the night sky. Golden lights against purple darkness. Beautiful and sad and *hopeful* in a way that made Nana's chest ache.
She watched them rise, carrying prayers for Linkon, and tried to believe Zayne's words.
We'll figure it out together.
She didn't have hope for much. Didn't know what her future looked like now that her entire world had been destroyed.
But she had Zayne.
Zayne who'd died six times in Avalon and fallen in love with her each time. Zayne who'd been captured by the facility and enhanced against his will but chose to heal instead of fight. Zayne who'd performed surgery on her while crying because losing her was unthinkable. Zayne who stayed with her even after knowing she wasn't fully human.
Zayne who chose her. Again and again and again.
"Whatever future comes," Nana whispered, "I want to be with you."
Zayne pulled her closer. "Always. No matter what."
They stood together at the memorial, surrounded by flowers and floating lanterns and the ghosts of everything they'd lost.
Linkon City was gone.
But they were alive.
And for now—for tonight—that had to be enough.
Zayne's parents found them an hour later, still standing at the memorial.
Sophia approached carefully, not wanting to intrude but clearly worried. "Zayne? Nana? It's getting late. You should rest."
Zayne turned, still holding Nana protectively. "Mom. Sorry, we just—"
"Don't apologize." Sophia looked at Nana with the same compassion she'd shown her son. "Grief takes as long as it takes. But you both need sleep. Proper rest. Your bodies are still healing."
William joined them, medical bag in hand. "We set up a private room for you both. Away from the evacuation crowds. Quiet. Safe."
Nana stiffened. "We can't accept—"
"You can and you will," William said firmly but kindly. "You're family now. Both of you. And family takes care of each other."
Family.
The word hit Nana like a physical blow.
She'd never had real family. Just parents who saw her as Specimen 21. Just a program designation instead of a daughter.
But Zayne's parents were looking at her with genuine care. Like she mattered. Like she was worth protecting.
Like she was human.
Fresh tears filled Nana's eyes but she blinked them away. "Thank you."
Sophia smiled—warm and motherly in a way that made Nana's chest ache. "Come on. Let's get you both somewhere warm."
They walked back to the medical complex together. Zayne's hand in Nana's. His parents flanking them protectively.
And for the first time since the outbreak began, Nana felt something that wasn't fear or grief or rage.
She felt hope.
Small. Fragile. Barely there.
But real.
Linkon City: destroyed but remembered.
Survivors: grieving but healing.
Two enhanced individuals: alive, together, finding hope in the ruins.
And somewhere in the future—still unclear, still uncertain—the possibility of something better.
Whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
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To be continued.