The storm had moved on, leaving the ruins slick and silent.
Drips echoed down the cracked tunnel where 24 had collapsed again, half-conscious against the wall. His pulse was weak, shallow. The wound on his ribs had reopened—blood darkened the concrete beneath him.
He blinked through the haze. His vision swam between light and shadow. For a moment, he thought he saw Moth's faceagain—soft, warm, impossible.
But when the figure stepped out of the darkness, it wasn't her.
It was someone else.
She moved quietly, like she belonged to the silence. Her clothes were scavenged but practical—dark layers stitched and reinforced. Her boots made no sound as she approached, and her face was hidden behind a simple white porcelain mask, smooth except for a faint crack across one side.
24's hand went for his knife.
He didn't find it.
"Easy," the woman said, her voice muffled but calm. "You'll tear it worse if you move."
She crouched beside him. In her gloved hands, she held a small medkit—old world design, edges scuffed, but still functional. She set it down and began to unwrap bandages with steady precision.
24's eyes narrowed. "Who sent you?"
"No one," she replied simply.
She pressed a cloth against his wound. The sting made him grunt, jaw tightening. Her touch was gentle but firm. She worked efficiently—disinfectant, sealant gel, compression wrap. She'd done this before.
"You should've bled out hours ago," she murmured. "What are you made of?"
He gave a faint, humorless smile. "Mistakes."
That almost earned a reaction—her head tilted slightly, like she wanted to smile but didn't. She continued binding the wound, her movements methodical.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, just heavy. The kind that carried weight neither wanted to name.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels. "You'll live. But not if you keep running like that."
24 exhaled slowly, leaning against the wall. "Running's all I know."
"Then maybe that's the problem."
He turned his head toward her. The dim light from the tunnel's broken sign caught the edge of her mask, revealing faint markings etched along the jawline—symbols or numbers, long faded. Her eyes behind the narrow slits were unreadable, reflecting the faint red glow like mirrors.
"You've got ghosts in your eyes," she said softly. "Who were you running from?"
He hesitated. "Someone who made me."
"And now wants you back."
24's gaze flicked up sharply. "You know him?"
She didn't answer right away. She reached into her pack, pulling out a cracked metal flask, offered it to him. "Drink first. Talk later."
He took it, sniffed—clean water. Rare. He drank, the cool liquid cutting through the dryness in his throat.
When he handed it back, she was already watching him again, head slightly tilted like she was studying something beneath the surface.
"You shouldn't be alive," she said quietly. "People like him don't let their weapons walk away."
He looked down at the blood-soaked bandages. "Then maybe I wasn't a weapon after all."
That made her pause. Then she stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "Get some rest. I'll keep watch until dawn."
24 frowned. "You're just going to stay here?"
"For now."
He tried to see her face beneath the mask, but the light caught only the smooth white surface, cold and distant.
"What do I call you?" he asked finally.
She hesitated at the edge of the darkness. "You don't."
Then she sat against the opposite wall, rifle across her knees, motionless except for the faint rhythm of her breathing.
24 closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under again. The rain whispered through cracks in the ceiling. For the first time in days, the silence didn't feel like an enemy.
When sleep took him, the last thing he saw was the pale shape of her mask glowing faintly in the dark—
like a moth's wing caught in the light.