The rain had stopped.
For the first time in days, the ruins above were quiet — no drones, no sirens, just the low groan of wind through hollow tunnels. The air inside the old subway station felt different, almost alive again.
24 lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling. The fever had broken sometime in the night. Sweat clung to his skin, but the shaking had stopped. His breathing came easier now, though his ribs still ached with every movement.
The masked woman sat a few feet away, cross-legged beside a small lantern. She was cleaning her rifle with mechanical precision, the light flickering off the pale porcelain that hid her face.
For a while, neither spoke.
Finally, 24 broke the silence.
"You've been watching me sleep for two days."
She didn't look up. "Someone had to make sure you kept breathing."
"You could've left."
A pause. Then, "I could've."
The way she said it wasn't defensive — just factual.
He studied her for a moment. The way her shoulders rose and fell with calm breaths. The steady rhythm of her movements. Whoever she was, she'd learned to live quietly.
"You have a name?" he asked.
She hesitated, wiping the barrel clean. "Names are for people who plan to be remembered."
"So that's a no."
"Call me whatever you want. It won't stick."
He gave a faint, dry laugh that turned into a cough. "Then maybe I'll just call you Mask."
That earned the smallest tilt of her head — amusement, maybe. "You think that's clever?"
"It's efficient."
She set the rifle aside and leaned back against the wall. "You sound like them when you talk like that."
24's eyes narrowed. "Them?"
"EGI. The ones who built you to measure everything in terms of use. Efficient. Effective. Disposable."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "You seem to know a lot about them."
"I know what they destroy," she said quietly.
The lantern light flickered. For a moment, the crack across her mask seemed deeper — like a scar splitting porcelain and shadow.
"I've seen their experiments," she continued. "Bodies wired into machines. People rewritten until they forget what it feels like to be human. You were one of them, weren't you?"
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Silence said enough.
She reached for the medkit, checked his bandages. "You heal fast," she said softly.
"Not fast enough."
Her hands paused. "You'll be strong enough to move in a few days."
He frowned. "And then what?"
"Then you leave."
He studied her again — the mask, the calm voice, the way she refused to look directly at him when she said it.
"Just like that?"
"You don't belong here."
He laughed under his breath. "Where exactly do I belong?"
That stopped her. She didn't have an answer.
The two sat in silence again, the only sound the soft hum of wind through the broken tunnels. After a while, she reached into her pack and pulled out a small tin. She handed it to him.
"Eat."
He opened it. Dried rations — old, but edible. "You always feed strangers who bleed out on your doorstep?"
"Only the ones who look like they've got nowhere left to go."
He ate slowly, eyes never leaving her. "You still haven't told me why you helped me."
She looked down at her gloves, fingers flexing slightly. "Maybe I just didn't want to watch another weapon die."
There was something in her tone — not pity, not judgment. Just quiet understanding.
He swallowed hard. "I'm not a weapon anymore."
Her head tilted, the cracked mask catching the light. "Then what are you?"
24 didn't answer. He didn't know.
They sat together until the lantern burned low, shadows stretching long across the tunnel walls.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was soft, almost uncertain.
"You said names don't matter. But if you had one… what would it be?"
She hesitated, then turned slightly toward him.
"Once," she said quietly, "someone called me Lumen. It means light."
He watched her in silence. The name lingered in the air between them like something fragile — something she didn't often share.
"Lumen," he repeated, tasting the word. "It fits."
She turned her face away, mask unreadable.
"Don't get used to it."
He leaned back, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting across his face. "Too late."
The storm outside began again, a soft drizzle against the stone. The light dimmed, flickered, and faded, leaving them in a silence that felt — for once — almost human.