The apartment was quiet.
Not the hollow, dangerous quiet of the streets below, but a muted, enclosed stillness that felt almost unreal after the chaos they had fled. The air smelled faintly of dust and old fabric, layered beneath a trace of detergent and something warm that reminded Jagger of home. It was clean. Too clean.
A modest living room opened before them, larger than most of the safe houses they had used before. A flat-screen TV hung crookedly on one wall, its glass spiderwebbed with cracks. A couch sat opposite it, cushions slightly sunken, as if someone had only just stood up. A coffee table rested between them, one leg reinforced with a stack of old magazines. The kitchen connected seamlessly to the space, counters wiped down, cabinets closed. Three doors branched off from the living room, all shut, all silent.
Porpo did not hesitate.
She rushed straight to the fridge, yanked it open, and stared inside for an extended second, empty shelves. No containers. No bottles. No food. "Fuck saaaaaake."
She sighed heavily, the sound sharp with disappointment, and closed it with a dull thud. Without another word, she shuffled to the couch and collapsed face-first onto it, boots still on, exhaustion finally winning. Within seconds, her breathing evened out, shallow but steady.
Jane and Lynis moved immediately.
Jane locked the door, and they swept the apartment with practiced efficiency, checking corners, peering into closets, opening doors just enough to confirm nothing waited on the other side. Jane moved quietly, favoring one leg slightly, her hand never straying far from her knife. Lynis checked the windows, then the balcony door, drawing the curtains and blinds shut with a grimace as he put too much weight on his bruised side. Jagger stayed where he was.
He stood in the center of the living room, slowly turning, taking everything in. The couch. The table. The kitchen counter had a single mug left beside the sink. He could not stop thinking that this place had once belonged to someone. A family, maybe. A couple. Someone who had laughed here, argued here, lived here.
They were gone now.
"It's clear," Jane said, emerging from one of the rooms. Her voice was quieter than before, worn down by fatigue. "We can rest here."
Jagger shook his head. 'Stop thinking about it. This is the world now. You either get used to it, or you end up on the floor like them outside.'
Lynis came out of the opposite room and nodded once in agreement.
Porpo was already asleep.
Jane exhaled softly, then straightened. "There are two rooms. The master bedroom, Porpo, and I will take. You boys decide what you want to do." She paused, rubbing at the back of her neck. "We stay here for three hours. Cleanup for now and rest."
Her gaze shifted to Jagger, sharp but measured. "Meet me here in an hour. We need to talk."
She walked over to Porpo and bent down, carefully lifted her into her arms, and carried her toward the master bedroom. Porpo stirred but did not wake, leaning into Jane like a child.
This was odd to see. Porpo was always the loudest and most boisterous, but now she looked fragile. This showed Jagger how the world had changed them.
Lynis watched them go, then turned to Jagger with a tired grin. "I take the bed lah," he said lightly. "I grab some clothes for you, put them on the floor by the door while you go shower." He pointed toward the door on his left, near the bedroom. "Towels inside one."
Jagger nodded.
He slipped off his boots near the main door, the weight of them thudding softly onto the floor along with his socks, and walked toward the bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a full minute, he did not move.
The lights flickered on automatically, bathing the small tiled room in a sterile fluorescent glow. White tiles. Clean grout. A mirror without cracks. Everything was neat. Almost untouched.
A toothbrush stood in a cup beside the sink. A half-used bar of soap rested on the edge of the tub, its surface smoothed by repeated use. A single black hair tie lay coiled near the faucet.
A life paused mid-motion.
Jagger stepped forward and braced both hands on the sink, fingers curling tightly around the porcelain. He stared at his reflection.
Blood speckled his face. Some of it his. Some of it not. Dried and darkened, it dotted his cheeks and jawline like a grotesque pattern. His hair clung to each other with thick stands, full with sweat and grime. His eyes looked sunken, haunted, older than they had any right to be.
"Get it together," he whispered to the stranger staring back at him. "You survived another day, so push it down and don't get soft."
'Yes,' a silken voice whispered in the back of his mind. 'Push it all down. The fear. The grief. The weakness. You don't need it.'
Ophilia's voice slid into his mind with familiar ease, low and intimate. The presence made the fine hairs on his arms lift, but there was no fear this time.
"You can talk to me in here now...?" he asked quietly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. There was a subtle pressure behind his eyes, almost imperceptible, a reminder that solitude was no longer truly possible.
'I told you I would be here.'
"And you also told me you'd exploit my weaknesses," he replied as he peeled off his torn, blood-soaked shirt. "You already know what they are."
'Of course I do. Your family. Your friends. The ones you lost. The ones you stand beside now.'
The shirt fell to the tiled floor with a wet, heavy sound.
He looked down at his torso. Coagulated blood was stuck all over his body, but there was nothing else besides that.
No scars. No discoloration. No sign that his body had been torn apart not long ago. His skin was smooth, pale, unbroken.
He pressed his fingers into his side where the pain had once been unbearable. Solid lean muscle met his touch. He traced the contours of his abdomen, feeling firm definition where there had once been softness.
"When I underwent body reconstruction..." he said slowly, "I got leaner, stronger, and more agile." His eyes met his reflection again. "Is this your doing?"
'You were soft. Weak. I refined you. Stripped away the unnecessary parts and rebuilt you more efficiently. Think of it as an upgrade.'
He stepped out of his pants and into the shower, twisting the knob. Cold water burst from the showerhead, striking his skin with sudden force. He took a few quick breaths, then leaned into it as hot water replaced the cold. Letting the heat wash over him.
Blood spiraled down the drain. Sweat followed. Dirt. Ash.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, water pouring over his face, down his neck, soaking into his shoulders. His muscles slowly loosened as tension bled away.
'You feel it, don't you?' Ophilia murmured. 'Each time you move even slightly. The subtle strength thrumming just beneath the surface. Every motion is a little more precise than before, a little faster.'
He flexed his fingers. Opening and closing them in a steady rhythm. Rolling his shoulder as he felt his back muscles tighten with newfound density.
He had always been fit. Running track in high school, keeping active. But this was something different. It felt like every fiber of his being had been replaced with something more substantial, faster.
Looking down, he opened his eyes, seeing the reddish-pink water swirl around the drain. He lowered himself to sit beneath the falling water, legs crossed, head bowed as water hit the nap of his neck and flowed down his back. "What do you get out of this?"
Steam filled the bathroom, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the world. The shower's sound became a constant roar, isolating him further.
'Survival. Like you. But I can also help you harness this new power.'
"Status," he said quietly.
A translucent red screen materialized in front of him, hovering in the steamy air. Soft light pulsed across its surface, letters glowing faintly as water streamed through it without resistance.