The rain hadn't stopped.
It fell in sheets that blurred the skyline into streaks of steel and smoke.
24 stumbled through the skeletal remains of the old sector, one hand pressed against his ribs, blood leaking between his fingers. Each step sent fire through his body. His breathing came shallow and uneven, misting in the cold.
He crossed a collapsed bridge—half of it hanging over a bottomless chasm where the old river used to flow. The wind howled through the broken rebar. He moved on instinct alone now. The EGI hub was miles behind him, but the memory of the fight still echoed in his bones.
His vision swam.
Every shadow became a soldier. Every sound became a whisper of pursuit.
He reached the ruins of an old subway station, its sign rusted and half gone—Line 6: East Wing. He staggered inside. The place smelled of damp stone and burnt circuitry. A flickering light hummed weakly from a shattered maintenance unit.
24 dropped to one knee.
The world tilted.
He tried to breathe, but his chest refused to obey. His hand slipped from the wound; the blood kept coming. The cold concrete welcomed him as he sank to the ground, eyes half-lidded.
"Not now…" he whispered. "Not yet…"
But the dark took him anyway.
The Memory
He was standing in a field—alive, green, impossible. Wind brushed through tall grass, carrying the scent of rain that didn't burn the skin. The sky was gold, not ash.
And she was there.
Moth.
Barefoot, laughing, her hair catching the light as she turned to face him. Her eyes were bright—gray like his, but softer, untouched by violence.
"You're late again," she said, teasing. "You always make me wait."
24 blinked, confusion and warmth flooding through him at once. "Moth?"
She smiled. "You sound surprised. You forget me that easily?"
He looked down—his hands were clean. No blood. No scars. Just skin. Whole.
"I don't…" he began. "I don't know what's real anymore."
Moth stepped closer, reaching out. Her fingers brushed his cheek, and he felt it—warmth, the kind that didn't come from a weapon's fire or adrenaline.
"You used to say that didn't matter," she whispered. "As long as we had this."
The world around them shimmered, edges dissolving like static.
He caught her wrist, desperate to keep her there. "Don't fade."
Moth smiled sadly. "You left first."
Thunder rolled. The field darkened. The grass turned to ash beneath his feet. Her form flickered, splitting into shards of light.
"You promised you'd come back," she said, voice breaking. "You promised you wouldn't let them take you."
"I tried," 24 choked out. "I tried to stop them. I—"
Her hand slipped away. The golden light went cold.
He was alone again, surrounded by fire and sirens and the screams of his own creation. The brand on his neck burned like molten iron.
"24," her voice echoed faintly. "Don't forget who you were."
Then everything shattered.
Reality
24 jerked awake with a gasp.
The sound of dripping water filled the silence. His body ached, the pain sharper now. The wound was crusted but still bleeding through his shirt.
He was still in the subway station. Night had fallen deeper.
The only light came from a broken emergency sign flickering red on the wall. Outside, the storm raged. He dragged himself upright, trembling. His breath came shallow, fogging in the cold air.
The memory still lingered behind his eyes—Moth's voice, her touch, her words.
"Don't forget who you were…"
He stared into the dark, whispering to no one.
"Too late for that."
Still, he pushed to his feet and started walking. One step at a time, through the flickering shadows. The storm roared above, and somewhere beyond it, the Core pulsed faintly in the distance—alive, waiting.
And Specter was coming.