Days passed in slow rhythm.
The fever was gone. The ache in 24's side had dulled to a steady pulse, like an echo of the fight he barely survived. He could move again — not well, but enough.
He tested his legs that morning. The cold concrete bit against his bare feet as he stood, unsteady but determined. Every step was a reminder that pain wasn't weakness — it was proof he was still alive.
From the corner of the room, Lumen watched in silence. She was perched on a fallen support beam, mask tilted slightly as he stumbled through the narrow space.
"You should rest another day," she said.
"Rest is for the dying," he muttered, bracing a hand against the wall. "I've done enough of that."
She sighed through the filter of her mask. "You can barely stand."
"Then I'll start there."
He pushed off the wall and began moving again, each motion more deliberate — a soldier's body remembering its purpose. Squats. Controlled steps. Shifting his weight side to side to test balance.
By midday, he was drenched in sweat, his muscles trembling. Lumen said nothing, just watched — the sound of cloth shifting every now and then as she adjusted her gloves or refilled the lantern oil.
When he finally stopped, breath ragged, he turned toward her.
"Where are they?"
"Where are what?"
"My blades."
Her head tilted slightly. "You mean the weapons you were clutching when you fell through my floor?"
"They're mine."
"They're dangerous."
"So am I."
She didn't move for a long moment. The only sound was the faint drip of water from the ceiling. Then she rose, walked to a small locker in the corner, and unlocked it.
She set the two blades on the table between them — one long, one short. Even dulled by dried blood and time, they carried presence. The long one was blackened steel, its edge etched with faint lines of circuitry from another life. The shorter blade had a chipped tip, but the balance was perfect — familiar.
24's gaze lingered on them like they were the last pieces of himself left in the world.
"You really think swinging those around is a good idea right now?" she asked.
He didn't answer. He picked up the short blade first, testing its weight in his hand. His arm trembled slightly, but he tightened his grip until the shaking stopped.
"You can't fight the infection by breaking your body again," she said.
"I'm not fighting the infection," he replied softly. "I'm fighting what happens when I stop."
Lumen stood there, silent behind the mask, watching as he moved into a slow practice rhythm. Each strike was precise, almost meditative — the whisper of steel through the air, followed by a staggered breath.
He wasn't training for battle. He was remembering how to be himself.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Sweat dripped from his chin, his bandages darkening where the wound strained. He winced but didn't stop.
Finally, Lumen stepped forward. "Enough."
He ignored her, finishing one last motion — a clean downward arc that ended with the tip of the blade a hair's breadth from the ground.
When he finally looked up, she was standing closer than before. He could see his reflection in the cracked surface of her mask — pale eyes ringed with exhaustion and defiance.
"You keep doing this," she said quietly, "you'll tear your stitches open."
"Then I'll stitch them shut again."
"You really don't care what happens to you, do you?"
He sheathed the short blade, his breathing slowing. "Caring gets you killed."
"No," she said, voice calm but firm. "Forgetting does."
That silenced him.
He turned away, sitting back against the wall, blades resting beside him. The weight of them was comforting — not as tools of death, but as reminders of what he still was: unfinished, unbroken.
Lumen picked up a cloth and tossed it to him. "At least clean them before you collapse again."
He caught it with a faint smirk. "Yes, ma'am."
As she walked back to her corner, the faintest trace of laughter — soft, almost human — came through the mask's filter.
For the first time in a long while, the air between them felt lighter.