The world was stained red.
Not the warm blush of sunset but a cold, unnatural light that painted the ground in sickly hues. The orb still hung low in the sky like a rotting moon, pulsing faintly as if breathing. The air felt heavier beneath it.
Zara stirred first, curled in the truck bed with Leo wrapped around her scarf. His tiny fists clutched the fabric even in sleep. She ran a hand through his curls, brushing ash-specks from his forehead. His breath hitched, but he stayed calm. Peaceful.
She sat up slowly. Her spine ached, muscles tight from the night.
Boots crunched nearby.
"Morning," Winter murmured.
She glanced over. He held a battered tin cup, steam curling from it like a last breath.
"Is that what I think it is?" she asked, voice rough.
"If you think it's tea, it's not. If you think it's hot, dirty leaf-water pretending to be tea, then yeah." He handed it to her with a smirk.
Their fingers brushed. Warmth bloomed—not from the cup.
