The vent above them shifted.
Just once.
But it was enough.
Vernon moved first.
He grabbed Ash by the wrist and yanked him toward the back of the safehouse as the ceiling panel exploded inward. Metal screamed. Dust filled the air. Something thin and sharp whistled past where Ash's head had been a second earlier and embedded itself in the wall with a dull thunk.
A dart.
"Down!" Vernon barked.
Ash hit the floor as a second dart sliced through the air, grazing his shoulder. Pain flared — sharp, cold, wrong.
"Shit," Ash hissed.
Vernon was already moving, firing upward into the vents. The shots weren't meant to hit — they were meant to scatter.
And they did.
Something retreated into the ductwork, metal scraping fast and light.
Too fast for human movement.
Ash pushed himself up. "They're not agents."
"No," Vernon said grimly. "They're collectors."
Ash's head snapped toward him. "Collectors of what?"
Vernon met his gaze. For a split second, the mask slipped just enough for Ash to see the truth in his eyes.
"Lives," Vernon said. "Stories. Outcomes."
Another explosion rocked the far wall.
The safehouse was compromised.
"We need to move," Vernon said. "Now."
Ash didn't argue.
They burst through the back exit into a rain-soaked alley. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, distorted by distance and storm. The city felt wrong tonight — like it was holding its breath.
They ran.
Boots splashed through puddles. Neon signs flickered overhead. Vernon led without hesitation, cutting left, then right, then down a stairwell that shouldn't have been there.
Ash followed on instinct.
"Where are we going?" he shouted over the rain.
"Somewhere they can't track us," Vernon replied. "Somewhere I swore I'd never bring you."
Ash's pulse spiked. "That's comforting."
They reached an old subway entrance — sealed, rusted, forgotten by time. Vernon slammed his shoulder into the gate. It didn't budge.
Ash stepped in, fired three rounds into the lock.
Metal snapped.
They forced it open and descended into darkness just as something landed behind them — softly.
Too softly.
Ash turned, gun raised.
Nothing.
Just shadows.
But Vernon grabbed his arm hard. "Don't look back."
That scared Ash more than anything else.
The tunnel smelled of dust, oil, and something older — like damp stone that had never seen light. Vernon led him deeper, past graffiti and broken signs, until they reached a platform untouched by time.
At its center stood a single door.
Black. Smooth. Wrong.
Ash slowed. "What is this place?"
Vernon stopped in front of the door, breathing hard. Rainwater dripped from his hair, his mask, his coat.
"This," he said quietly, "is where it always starts."
Ash's stomach dropped. "Starts what?"
Vernon turned to face him fully.
"Our first meeting," he said. "Not this one. The real one."
Ash stared. "You said I wasn't ready."
"I lied," Vernon said. "We're out of time."
Another sound echoed through the tunnel — not footsteps, but something like a heartbeat.
Slow. Heavy. Watching.
Vernon placed his palm against the door.
It opened.
The world shifted.
Ash stumbled forward — and the tunnel was gone.
He stood in a different city.
Older.
Darker.
War-torn.
Smoke curled through the air. Sirens screamed. Helicopters thundered overhead. Ash looked down at himself — different clothes. Tactical gear. A foreign insignia stitched onto his sleeve.
His breath caught.
"This is—"
"The past," Vernon said beside him. Not masked now. Younger. Sharper. Dangerous in a way Ash felt in his bones.
They weren't alone.
Across the ruined street, another man emerged from the smoke.
Tall. Armed. Calm.
His eyes locked onto Ash's.
And the world narrowed.
"That's you," Ash whispered.
"No," Vernon corrected gently. "That's him. You weren't Ash yet."
The man raised his weapon.
Ash felt it — the instinct, the pull, the recognition that made his chest ache.
Gunfire erupted.
They moved in perfect sync without knowing why — covering each other, flanking, retreating. Enemies fell. Buildings burned.
And between explosions and chaos, Ash felt something terrifying bloom.
Trust.
"You saved my life," the man shouted at him during a lull, blood streaking his face.
Ash — or whoever he was — stared at him, heart racing. "Don't get used to it."
The man smiled.
That smile.
Ash's knees nearly buckled.
"That's when you fell for me," Vernon said softly in the present.
Ash swallowed hard. "I don't remember choosing that."
"You never do," Vernon replied. "It just… happens."
The memory shifted again.
Night.
A rooftop.
Rain.
Two men standing too close.
"You know we're not supposed to do this," Ash's past self said.
Vernon's past self stepped closer anyway. "Then stop me."
Ash's breath caught as he watched himself hesitate — then close the distance.
The kiss was brutal. Desperate. Hungry. Like something stolen from fate itself.
Ash tore his eyes away.
"This is too much," he whispered.
Vernon didn't argue. He only said, "And yet you asked for answers."
The sound returned.
That heartbeat.
Closer now.
The memory fractured.
The city burned away.
They were back in the tunnel.
The black door slammed shut behind them.
Ash collapsed to one knee, breathing hard, hands shaking.
"They hunt us because we don't follow the script," Ash said slowly, understanding dawning. "Because we keep choosing each other."
Vernon knelt in front of him, gripping his shoulders. "Yes."
"And every time—"
"One of us dies," Vernon finished.
Ash looked up at him, eyes fierce despite the fear. "Not this time."
Vernon's expression cracked — just for a second.
"I want to believe that," he said quietly.
The heartbeat stopped.
Silence fell.
Then a voice echoed through the tunnel — layered, wrong, ancient.
"Cycle confirmed."
Ash stiffened.
Vernon pulled him to his feet. "They've found us."
Ash raised his gun. "Good."
Vernon's eyes burned with something between pride and terror.
"Stay close," he said. "If we're going to break this cycle…"
He leaned in, foreheads touching.
"…we do it together."
The shadows began to move.
And somewhere beyond them, the watchers prepared to reset the world.