Senti's POV
The city changed after that night.
Maybe it was just me.
Maybe it had always been this quiet, this sharp around the edges.
Vale looked the same in the daylight — people working, shouting, pretending not to see the things that made the world tilt. But when the sun dropped, it all came back. The smell of Dust residue. The metallic sting of gunfire that never reached the newsfeeds. The White Fang was still moving. Only slower now.
Because I was still here.
The body in the factory had been discovered by Atlas two days later. I saw it on the front page of a morning paper — "Gang Violence in Lower Vale."
No names. No mention of the Fang. No mention of the Wolf.
I stared at the grainy photo until the ink rubbed off on my fingers.
It wasn't guilt that sat in my stomach. It was something worse.
Satisfaction.
It made me sick.
The wound on my shoulder had scabbed over but still burned when I moved. I kept working anyway.
You can't afford to stop in Vale. The city forgets you faster that way.
I'd been sleeping in the upper level of an abandoned warehouse since the fight — one room, no power, one cracked mirror leaning against the wall. I'd found it half-buried under a tarp, but I didn't throw it out.
The reflection was warped — the glass too old, edges spiderwebbed with cracks. When I passed by, it made me look like I was already fading.
Sometimes, when I looked long enough, I swore the reflection moved before I did.
That night, I found another Fang drop. Smaller this time — a few stolen Dust cartridges, a half-dozen low-level members.
They didn't see me. I didn't attack. I just watched from the shadows, waiting, listening.
One of them — a Faunus boy, barely older than Blake had been when she ran — hesitated before pocketing his cut.
"Boss says we'll hit a shipment next week," someone said.
The boy asked quietly, "What if people get hurt?"
Laughter. Someone shoved him. "You worry too much."
He didn't laugh. He just lowered his head.
That was enough for me to turn away.
They weren't monsters. Just lost.
I told myself I wouldn't kill again. That I could stop it before it happened.
The reflection laughed at me that night.
A faint, dry sound, like cracked glass settling.
I dropped the knife I was cleaning.
"Not funny," I muttered.
The reflection didn't answer — not at first. Then its mouth moved a fraction too late, words half a whisper out of sync.
You said that before.
I froze. "Who's there?"
The voice came from nowhere and everywhere — my own tone, but colder.
You promised to stop. You always promise to stop.
"Go away."
You can't make me. I'm you, remember?
I stepped closer, breath fogging the cracked mirror. "No. You're what's left."
The reflection smiled. Its eyes flickered — red to gold to back again.
You think you're doing good. But you just like being needed.
My hand slammed against the glass. The mirror cracked further, spidering across my reflection's face.
The voice didn't stop.
You can't save anyone. You can only erase what's left of them.
"Enough."
Silence.
When I opened my eyes again, the mirror was whole. No cracks. No blood.
Just my face, calm, staring back.
I didn't sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the boy's face — the one who didn't laugh, who still believed people could change.
And over his voice, mine whispered back, You'll kill him too.
I left the warehouse before dawn.
The streets were damp with mist. The train lines buzzed overhead, carrying students, workers, soldiers — everyone heading toward a life that made sense.
I moved against the flow, toward the southern edge of the city. The Fang used the old tram tunnels there, hidden beneath the grid.
The further down I went, the colder the air grew. The tunnels smelled of rust and burnt Dust.
I found signs of another drop — crates stacked wrong, footprints leading deeper.
I drew my blades and followed.
The ambush came fast. Three of them, maybe four — weapons drawn, shouting something I didn't hear.
I moved out of instinct.
Strike. Step. Turn.
The world shrank to motion.
When the noise stopped, only one was left breathing — on his knees, staring up at me.
He was just a kid.
The same one from the night before.
I froze.
He dropped his weapon. "Please. I didn't—"
I took a step back, lowering my blades. "Go home."
He didn't move. Just stared like he didn't believe me.
I gestured toward the exit. "Now."
He ran.
When I looked down, my hands were shaking again.
There was blood on them. Not much. Not his.
But the smell was enough.
And when I turned to the tunnel wall, I saw it — words scrawled across the metal in my handwriting:
"You're getting better."
I didn't remember writing it.
Back at the warehouse, the mirror was cracked again.
And this time, the reflection didn't wait for me to speak.
You're lying to yourself, it whispered. You didn't let him go because you care. You let him go so you can find him again when you're ready.
I pressed my palms to the glass. "You're not real."
Then stop talking to me.
The cracks spread wider, slicing my reflection into jagged shards of red and gold.
I turned away before it broke completely.
By morning, Vale was already moving again. The newspapers blamed "gang retaliation" for the latest fight underground. The Fang was scattering — smaller groups, hiding deeper.
For everyone else, it was just another headline.
For me, it was proof that I was slipping — not because I was killing, but because I'd started to believe I had to.
The Wolf wasn't protecting anyone anymore. She was just cleaning the parts of the world no one wanted to see.
And the mirror was still laughing.