He woke to the sound of rain again.
It drummed softly through cracks in the ceiling, a rhythm he couldn't escape. The air in the tunnel was colder now, heavy with damp and rust. Every breath scraped against his ribs.
He tried to sit up—and pain flared white-hot through his side. The wound throbbed under the bandages, skin burning, pulse pounding like a second heartbeat. He groaned, falling back against the wall.
"Don't move," the masked woman's voice said quietly.
He turned his head. She was kneeling beside him, the porcelain mask still in place. A small light flickered on her wristband as she peeled away the bandages. The edges of the wound were swollen and red. Infection.
"It's spreading," she murmured, half to herself.
She cleaned the wound again, her movements fast but careful. 24's vision blurred in and out; the edges of her silhouette wavered. The antiseptic burned like acid. He clenched his jaw but didn't speak.
Her voice cut through the haze. "You're lucky it didn't reach the bloodstream. Another day, and you wouldn't be talking."
He gave a faint, hoarse laugh. "I'm barely talking now."
She didn't respond, but he thought he saw her head tilt slightly, the faintest sign of amusement—or pity. It was hard to tell through the mask.
Then everything started to fade again.
The Dream
He was lying in sunlight.
Real sunlight.
The warmth sank into his skin, soft and unreal. The air smelled like rain and wildflowers—things that didn't exist anymore.
A shadow leaned over him, her voice light and familiar.
"You sleep too much," Moth said. "You'll miss the world if you keep closing your eyes."
24 smiled weakly. "Maybe that's the point."
She sat beside him, brushing dirt from her knees. Her hair shimmered silver in the light. He reached up to touch it—but his fingers passed through her like smoke.
"Why do you keep running?" she asked.
He frowned. "Because I have to."
"No," she whispered, leaning closer. "You run because you're afraid to stop."
He tried to answer, but his throat locked. The sunlight dimmed. The field cracked like glass beneath him, light bleeding through the fractures.
"Don't fade," he said. "Please."
Moth smiled softly. "Then wake up."
Reality
He gasped awake, chest heaving.
The fever had him sweating despite the cold. The woman was still there—her mask turned toward him, the cracked porcelain reflecting the dim light from a lantern she'd scavenged.
She was humming quietly. A low, unfamiliar melody that didn't belong in a place like this. It grounded him.
"You were talking in your sleep," she said.
His voice came rough. "What did I say?"
"A name. 'Moth.'"
He looked away. "She's gone."
The woman didn't reply. She dipped a cloth in cool water and wiped the sweat from his face. Her hands were steady, practiced. When she touched the side of his neck—the branded number—she paused, tracing it with a gloved finger.
"They marked you like property," she murmured.
24's eyes opened, glassy. "That's all I was to them."
"Not anymore."
Something in the way she said it—soft but certain—hit deeper than the words themselves.
He drifted again, somewhere between waking and sleep. The fever tugged at him, pulling him under, and he saw flashes: Moth laughing under falling ash. Specter's cold eyes behind glass. A hand reaching for his through fire.
Through it all, the masked woman's voice anchored him—distant but real.
"Breathe. You're still here."
When he opened his eyes again, dawn light filtered faintly through the cracks in the ceiling. The infection had eased. The pain dulled. The masked woman sat beside him, head lowered, resting her arms on her knees. Still. Silent.
He studied her for a long time, wondering who she really was beneath that mask—
and why she'd saved him at all.