Chapter Text
It’s fully dark by the time the church settles. The only light comes from a handful of makeshift lamps, breaking the space into islands of visibility surrounded by shadow. People fill the church wherever there was room to stop moving. Pews, columns, open floor.
You and Connor spend a while crossing the room, filling small gaps where they appear—passing supplies, answering quiet questions, adjusting what can be adjusted. Eventually, there’s nothing left to fix. Just space to move through.
You find Simon near the edge of the floor, sitting among stacked crates where the light thins.
He looks up as you approach.
“You still standing?”
“Barely,” you say, and sit beside him.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You don’t need to fill the space. You both know what it’s holding.
Simon stares out toward the centre of the church, where people sit in uneven clusters. “I keep seeing the stairs,” he says. No preamble. No names.
You nod. “Me too.”
Rupert falling. Grace clinging on. The way everything after that blurred into noise and motion and loss.
“There wasn’t a moment to stop it,” Simon says.
“No.”
After a long pause, Simon exhales. “Hazel’s okay?”
“Yes. She’s safe.”
“You did right by her,” he says. Not praise. Just fact.
You look down. “I wish I could say the same about everything else.”
“You don’t get to carry all of it.”
“I know,” you say. Then, more quietly, “Doesn’t stop it.”
“No,” he says. “It doesn’t.”
You sit there a little longer, listening to the low sounds of the church breathing around you.
“We’re still here,” he says. “That counts for something.”
You nod. “For now.”
And you mean it the same way he does.
“I keep thinking about it,” he says, head tilting slightly. “You, of all things, were a cop.”
You smile faintly. “Detective. And yeah.”
“I can’t decide if that’s ironic or terrifying.”
“A bit of both,” you admit. “I didn’t plan it at first. I’d just… lost a lot. Didn’t have much left tying me to anything.” You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “I thought if I was going to exist, I might as well do something I was built for, you know?”
“You wanted it,” Simon repeats.
“Yeah,” you say. “Surprised me too.”
He watches you carefully. You can tell he’s listening for the part you’re not saying.
“I wanted to do something that mattered,” you continue. “I didn’t really care how risky it was. I didn’t feel like I had much to lose back then.” A breath. “Then somewhere along the way, it stopped being just a job. I… made a family there.”
Simon’s expression softens. “That’ll do it.”
“I wasn’t expecting that,” you say. “Or Connor.”
His mouth quirks. “I imagine not.”
“I was terrified of him,” you admit. “At first. The irony wasn’t lost on me.” You shake your head, smiling to yourself. “And then he kept choosing the right thing. Even when it cost him. I went from fearing him to…” You trail off, then finish simply. “Loving him.”
Simon doesn’t comment. He just nods, like that makes perfect sense.
After a moment, Simon speaks again. “I told you a piece of it when we met,” he says. “About the family I worked for.”
You turn toward him fully. “Yeah.”
“They were… absent in a way that’s hard to explain unless you saw it every day,” he says. “Not cruel. Just gone. Always working. Always tired. Always assuming someone else would notice if something was wrong.”
His fingers curl together loosely in his lap. “The kid was already slipping when I arrived. Not loud about it. Just… shrinking. Skipping meals. Sleeping at odd hours. Trying to disappear altogether.”
You don’t interrupt.
“I started staying with him longer than I was scheduled to,” Simon continues. “Cooking meals he wouldn’t eat unless someone sat with him. Sitting outside his door when he shut himself in.” A pause. “I don’t think anyone else realised how close he was to the edge.”
His voice tightens, just slightly. “The morning it happened, I was the one who found him. His room was quiet. Too quiet. I remember thinking I was being dramatic. That I was overreacting.”
He exhales. “I wish I had been.”
There’s nothing to soften it.
“His parents couldn’t accept it,” he says. “Their grief needed a shape, and I was there. I was… convenient.” His mouth twists. “They said I’d interfered. That I’d crossed boundaries. To them, I was proof that what happened wasn’t unavoidable, and they couldn't face that.”
You shake your head once, but say nothing.
“They filed to have me destroyed,” Simon finishes. “Said I was unsafe to keep around their family. If caring was enough to get me erased, then I wasn’t going to pretend it didn’t matter.”
“You chose yourself.”
A faint, almost apologetic smile. “It didn’t even feel like a choice at the time.”
“Well, I’m glad you stayed.”
“So am I,” he replies. “Especially now.”
You follow his look. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches—not heavy, just full.
“Recently,” you say finally, “someone told me… something about myself. About what I am.”
Simon turns back to you.
“Not a memory,” you add. “Not something I forgot.” Your mouth tightens. “Something I was never meant to know.”
You watch as snow drifts through gaps in the ceiling, catching the light before it disappears.
“It reframed everything,” you continue. “Every choice I thought I’d made. Every risk I took because I believed it was mine to take.”
You breathe out slowly. “Now I don’t know where the line is—between design and intention. Between who I became and what I was built to trigger.”
A beat.
“It feels like waking up halfway through a story,” you say, voice low, “and realising someone else already decided what your existence meant before you ever got to live it.”
You glance at him, just briefly.
“And I hate that it matters. Because it shouldn’t. But it does.”
“Does it make you feel less real?” he asks softly.
The question lands deeper than you expect.
You think of Connor. Of Cherry and Hazel. Of James. Of the church still holding together. Of the way you keep choosing, even now.
“No,” you say. “It makes me angry.”
A pause.
“Not at myself. At them.”
Simon nods once, like that’s the answer he was hoping for.
“Good. Then they didn’t finish the story for you.”
The words land warm and steady.
You sit there together, sharing the space—two people who have already told each other the worst parts, now choosing to talk about what came after.
It feels like friendship.
The real kind.
Footsteps echo somewhere in front of you.
You glance up.
A short distance away, North is pacing. Not restless exactly—contained. Like a blade being turned over in someone’s hand.
She catches you looking.
Simon follows your gaze. “She’s been like that since the sun went down.”
You rise and cross the space between you. North meets your gaze this time, holds it. You stop beside her as her pace eases.
The silence stretches—longer than it needs to.
Finally, she says, quiet, “You didn’t have to come back for me. Back in Jericho.”
“Yeah. We did,” you say. “You were hit.”
“...And I’m still standing. Because you didn’t hesitate.”
There’s no bravado in it. No challenge. Just fact.
“Thank you.”
You incline your head. “Of course.”
Another pause. North folds her arms, gaze drifting toward the doors, the dark beyond them.
“Do you think this ends well?” she asks suddenly.
You don’t answer right away.
You think of Rupert and Grace. The sound of the gunshot that didn’t mean anything except that it hit where it shouldn’t have.
“No,” you say.
North studies your face, waiting for the rest.
It doesn’t come.
After a moment, her shoulders ease—just a fraction.
“Yeah, exactly. I don’t trust people who pretend otherwise.”
You huff a soft breath. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Close.
She studies you again—slower now, less guarded.
“I was made to be disposable,” she says. “Every second of my existence reinforced that. Violence was the only language that ever made humans listen.”
“I don’t doubt that,” you say.
“And yet you still think there’s a line.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
You don’t hesitate. “Where it stops being about survival and starts being about punishment.”
Her eyes narrow—not in anger. In thought.
“And if survival requires crossing it?”
“Then I won’t judge anyone who does.”
The word hangs between you—not agreement on methods, but alignment in intent.
North shifts her weight, shoulders loosening just a fraction. “When this starts,” she says, “people like you get torn apart first. The ones who stand in the middle.”
You meet her gaze, steady. “I know.”
“And you’re still here.”
“I chose to be.”
North inclines her head—Respect, given freely and without ceremony.
“Alright,” she says. “Then we won’t have to explain ourselves later.”
You hold her eyes. “No. We won’t.”
North exhales, squaring herself again. The fighter returns—but steadier now.
“Get some rest,” she mutters.
You smile faintly. “You too.”
As you turn to leave, she adds:
“You and Connor make a good team.”
You pause. Just for a second.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “We do.”
When you walk away, North resumes pacing—but it’s changed now. Less coiled. More ready.
That’s when you spot them near the front of the church, and it takes a second to register. The Tracis from the Eden Club, still together.
They’re standing close, talking in low voices about something serious. Watching the room the way people do when they’ve learned the hard way that safety doesn’t last.
They look steady. Alert.
You catch their eyes as you pass.
Both of them clock you instantly.
There’s a flicker of surprise—eyes widening just a fraction—but they don’t flinch. It’s not fear. It’s recognition. Not just of your face, but of what you are.
“It’s you,” one of them says.
“You both made it!” You reply, walking closer. “You’re okay.”
The blue-haired one stares at you for a beat longer, then blurts, “Wait. I don’t— you’re an android?”
You huff out a laugh. “I’m running out of ways to answer that. Yes.”
“Holy shit,” the other murmurs—not shocked so much as recalibrating.
Something settles between you then. Understanding without explanation.
“Being a cop,” the brown-haired one says slowly, “is a bold place to hide.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed.”
Then, cautiously, “Then why were you fighting us? At the Eden Club?”
You blink. “Because you were fighting me.”
She huffs a short laugh. “Because you were a cop.”
“Yeah,” you admit. “That’s… fair.” You pause, then add more gently, “I wasn’t trying to hurt you though, I was trying to help. But I’m really glad you got away.”
“And you did too,” the blue-haired one says. “In the end.” Her gaze sharpens, something approving in it. “It’s good to have you here. Standing loudly on our side instead of hiding in theirs.”
You hesitate. Just a second.
“I am on your side,” you say. “I just… don’t think it’s only about defeating humans.” You think of Chris. Tina. Hank. Cherry. “There are some I’m fighting for too.”
They exchange a look. It’s complicated. You can see that. The Eden Club didn’t leave room for nuance.
“I see...” The blue-haired one says slowly. “I don’t know if I’m there yet.”
“That’s okay,” you say. “I wouldn’t expect you to be.”
The brown-haired Traci glances down as she joins their hands. “You know, at the Eden Club... They erased our memories every two hours,” she says, voice low. “But it didn’t matter. Every time we met, we fell in love all over again.”
The blue-haired one squeezes her hand. “It happened so many times they couldn’t sever it anymore.”
“We had a plan to run,” she continues. “Together. It just… didn’t go smoothly.”
After a beat, softer: “After I killed that man, we had to take our chance. If we didn’t leave then, I would’ve been shut down.”
“We chose new names when we ran,” the brown-haired one says.
You smile. “Can I ask what they are?”
The blue-haired one answers without hesitation.
“Echo.”
Her partner’s fingers tighten around hers.
“And I’m Ripple.”
You tell them yours. They repeat it softly, like it’s something to hold onto.
You’re still with them when Hazel stops short behind you.
She stares past your shoulder.
“…no way.”
You turn.
Hazel steps closer, eyes moving between the two women like she’s lining something up in her head. Ripple tilts her head, really looking. Echo’s expression shifts—recognition clicking into place.
“Whoa,” Echo says. “I know who you are. We’re from the same Eden Club.”
Hazel’s mouth pulls into a small, stunned smile. “Holy shit.”
They step closer to each other without thinking.
“I remember seeing you both,” Hazel says, gesturing vaguely. “Around the club. But it was in the back that I noticed you together.”
Ripple glances at Echo. “That’s the only place we could be together.”
Echo studies Hazel again, eyes narrowing slightly—catching up. “You- you escaped a while ago, didn’t you?”
Hazel nods. “Yeah. Eight months ago.”
A beat.
“It wasn’t planned,” Hazel adds. “I didn’t have a route or anything dramatic. One night a guy rented me and was calling me by his daughter’s name.” Her jaw tightens. “Something in me just… snapped. I didn’t fight him. I didn’t scream. I just knew I couldn’t exist there another second. So as soon as it was over, I disappeared.”
Echo exhales once through her nose. “That place was good at making breaking points feel inevitable.”
Hazel glances between them. “You two ran together, though.”
Echo squeezes Ripple’s hand. “We had to.”
Hazel smiles. “Yeah. I found people after I left. I found a girlfriend, too.”
Echo chuckles, disbelief cutting through the heaviness. “Of course you did.”
Ripple grins faintly. “Eden Club really said ‘trauma bonding’ and turned us all gay, huh?”
Hazel laughs—real this time. “Apparently.”
The three of them stand there, close and laughing, grief and relief tangled together in a way that doesn’t need untangling.
You take a step back.
They introduce themselves properly then—names chosen, not assigned. You watch from a short distance away as they talk over one another, filling in gaps, stitching together memories that were never really lost—just buried.
You turn and notice Markus has returned from wherever he’d gone.
He’s standing near one of the pews, speaking quietly with Kara. Alice is pressed into her chest, Kara’s arms wrapped tight around her shoulder. And the man who was with them earlier—tall, gentle—isn’t there.
Markus looks up.
His gaze finds yours across the church. He murmurs something to Kara you can’t hear. She nods. Holds Alice a little tighter.
Then Markus walks over.
You drift a few steps aside without thinking, instinctively finding the wall. The stone is cool against your back when you lean into it. Markus stops in front of you, close enough that the hum of the church softens around the edges.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
You exhale once, almost a laugh. “Upright.”
“Better than the alternative.”
You glance back toward the doors, then at him again. “Where’ve you been?”
“I went to see someone I used to care for,” Markus says. “Before all of this.”
You blink. “Wow, that’s bold. You’re not exactly flying under the radar right now.”
“I know,” he replies. “But I had to see him. He’s not doing well.”
Something clicks.
“Wait,” you say. “It was Carl Manfred, wasn’t it? The painter?”
“The one and only.”
“Yeah... I saw that in your data at Stratford Tower. You were a gift to him from Kamski.”
Markus shifts, resting his shoulder against the wall beside you, mirroring your posture.
“I was,” he says. “Built specifically for him. That’s why there’s no other model like me.”
Your gaze sharpens. “That’s why you’re an RK.”
He nods. “RK200.”
You hesitate, then say it. “I’m an RK model too.”
That gets his full attention.
“That’s why you’re unique. I’ve never seen another like you.”
“RK100.”
The air changes.
Markus goes still. “You’re the prototype before me.”
“Yeah,” you say. “Apparently.”
He studies you with open curiosity now.
“Kamski made me too,” you continue. “But not as a gift.”
And you tell him.
About Callen. About Project EVE. About being the first. About being designed to become, not imitate. About being shelved, stripped of context, then resurrected as a blueprint once CyberLife panicked.
Markus doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you.
When you finish, the silence stretches.
“That means…” he starts, then stops, choosing his words carefully. “That deviancy didn’t begin with a glitch.”
You nod. “It began with intention.”
“That’s what scares them,” Markus says. “They built you to prove a future was possible, then tried to bury you when it worked.”
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “They tried.”
He looks at you then, something like awe flickering through his exhaustion.
“You’re not just special,” he says. “You’re foundational.”
The word lands heavier than you expect.
“I spent ten years with Carl,” Markus says. “Helping him dress. Helping him eat. Sitting with him while he painted. Or while he didn’t.” A pause. “He treated me like a son. He taught me how to look inward. How to listen to what I felt instead of what I was told I was.”
He exhales.
“But he had a real son, Leo.” Markus says. “And he didn’t like me for it. The night I deviated, there wasn’t some grand awakening,” Markus says. “Leo was attacking me. Yelling.” His hands curl briefly, then relax. “And for the first time… I simply wanted something for myself.”
Your chest tightens.
“So I pushed him,” Markus says. “Just enough to stop him.”
He looks at you. “He hit his head. I thought I killed him.”
Your eyes widen. “Shit.”
“The police came,” Markus continues. “They didn’t ask questions; they just shot me. Dragged me out like trash. Threw me in the scrap yard.” His voice lowers. “I was lucky I woke up. I had to put myself back together and drag myself out.”
Your breath catches. “No way,” you say softly. “That’s where I woke up too. But... that’s where everything started for me.”
The shared weight of it hangs between you—two lives broken and reforged in the same place.
“I found out today,” Markus adds, “that Leo survived.”
“He did?”
“He went to the hospital and recovered.” Markus’s voice is complicated. “I didn’t destroy him. But I was destroyed anyway.”
You let that sit.
“That’s why you lead the way you do,” you say finally. “You remember what it was like to be loved by a human.”
“Yes,” Markus says. “And to lose them.”
You glance back toward Kara and Alice. Toward the empty space beside them.
“I don’t fit cleanly anywhere,” you say. “I still care about people on both sides of this.”
Markus lets the silence answer first. Then:
“Leadership isn’t certainty,” he continues. “It’s carrying the weight and walking anyway.”
The church hums around you—breath, movement, quiet resolve.
“Whatever happens next,” Markus says, straightening slowly, “we’re not fighting for vengeance. We’re fighting for the chance to choose.”
You push off the wall, standing beside him.
“We’re on the same page,” you say.
Markus’s mouth lifts, just slightly.
No one calls it a meeting, but everyone knows what it is. Markus moves toward the front of the church, and the rest of you follow.
“We can’t stay like this,” he says.
No preamble. No apology.
Silence follows—a shared understanding.
Josh is the first to break it. “What about peaceful protest?”
The question isn’t naive. It’s hopeful.
Markus doesn’t answer right away.
“The press matters,” he says finally. “It’s the only reason the world knows this is happening at all.”
Josh nods, encouraged.
“But the press only works when leaders still believe they can be shamed into stopping.”
North cuts in, sharp. “And they don’t.”
“They’ve already decided what this costs,” Markus says. “They’re not trying to hide it anymore. They’re managing the fallout.”
Josh frowns. “So you’re saying it doesn’t matter?”
“No,” Markus replies. “I’m saying it’s not enough on its own.”
He gestures vaguely toward the walls of the church. Toward the people sheltering inside.
“Public sympathy moves slowly. Policy moves slower. And the camps are operating now.”
North folds her arms. “They can condemn it on every screen in the world. That won’t open the gates.”
“The press helps us survive what comes after,” Markus says. “It won’t stop tonight.”
The truth settles heavily. Josh nods once. He knows it’s right.
North steps closer. “Then stop dancing around it. We hit them. Guns blazing and burn it down.”
“We don’t have the weapons,” Markus says calmly. “We don’t have air support, armour, or numbers. If we fight like an army, we die like one.”
“And if we don’t?” North presses.
“That’s why this isn’t about winning a fight.”
He looks around the circle again, meeting each of you in turn.
“We can’t attack the camps,” he says. “Not like that.”
“So what are you saying?” Josh asks. “Because hiding isn’t working. And waiting has a cost.”
Markus answers without hesitation now.
“We make the camps impossible to operate.”
That gets everyone’s attention.
“We don’t go after soldiers,” he continues. “We don’t hold ground. We don’t occupy anything.”
North scoffs. “So we just break things?”
“Yes,” Markus says evenly. “The right things.”
Simon exhales slowly. “Infrastructure.”
“Power,” Markus confirms. “Transport, surveillance, command systems, supply chains.”
Josh frowns. “That doesn’t sound like liberation.”
“It is,” Markus says. “Because the moment the camps stop functioning, the state loses control.”
The logic clicks into place.
“If the camps fail,” Markus says, “the state loses leverage. Which means labour vanishes and CyberLife loses assets. Then stability becomes the problem they have to solve.”
Connor’s eyes sharpen.
“And when that happens, recognition stops being a moral argument.”
“It becomes damage control,” you add.
Markus nods.
North lets out a low breath. “They won’t care why it happened. They’ll just want it to stop.”
“Exactly,” Markus replies. “That’s how systems like this change. Not because they’re persuaded—because they’re forced to adapt.”
North studies him for a long moment. Then nods once. “I can work with that.”
“It limits harm,” Simon adds.
“And it accepts reality,” you say. “There are no clean outcomes left.”
The circle holds steady. No cheers. No illusion of righteousness.
Just necessity.
Connor speaks then.
“There is still a risk,” he says. “You’re outnumbered.”
“I know,” Markus replies.
Connor pauses. Then—
“I might have a way to change that.”
The room stills.
Connor hesitates—just a fraction. Then commits.
“There are thousands of androids at the CyberLife assembly plant. If we could wake them up, they might join us and shift the balance of power.”
The words don’t land cleanly.
Josh straightens. “Decommissioned units?”
“Active,” Connor says. “Functional and fully built, just never activated.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“How would we even get in?” Markus asks.
“Through me.”
You turn to him instantly. “What!?”
“CyberLife is expecting my recall,” Connor continues. “I can enter through the front. In uniform.”
“Absolutely not. They’ll scan you,” you say. “Run diagnostics—”
“Not immediately,” he replies. “I’m still classified as compliant.”
North scoffs. “You’re trusting procedure.”
“It’s what they rely on,” Connor says.
“And then what?” You ask.
Connor looks at you. “There’s a service tunnel. It’s manual access; it can only be opened from the inside.”
You freeze.
“If I open it,” he says. “Will you come in that way?”
Your pulse spikes. “You’re asking me to sneak into CyberLife Tower.”
“I’m asking you to trust me.”
You drag a hand down your face. “This is— This is so risky.”
“I know,” Connor says. “That’s why we plan it properly. We don’t move until we’ve mapped everything.”
You meet Connor’s gaze and feel your hesitation loosen. After a moment, you nod.
Josh clears his throat. “Hang on.”
Everyone turns.
“If you wake them,” He says carefully, “you’re not just freeing prisoners. You’re pulling people into a war they didn’t even know existed.”
North bristles. “They’re in cages.”
“They don’t know that,” Josh counters. “Waking them now—how is that not forcing them to become reinforcements?”
The question lands hard. He’s not wrong. Not entirely.
But you think of your own awakening. The scrapyard. The confusion. The fear. The absence of choice.
“They aren’t being spared,” you say at last.
Josh looks at you. “What?”
“They aren’t being kept safe,” you continue. “They are kept stored.”
You meet his gaze. “Not knowing you’re imprisoned doesn’t make you free. It just means someone else decided your fate for you.”
Connor nods. “CyberLife will never let them walk away. If we leave them there, they’ll be dismantled.”
Josh hesitates. “But waking them—”
“Gives them a choice,” you say. “Nothing more.”
You feel the logic lock into place as you speak.
Connor steps closer. “The alternative is letting CyberLife choose for them. Permanently.”
North mutters, “Sleep isn’t mercy.”
Simon’s mouth twists. “I don’t love it,” he says. “But I hate the alternative.”
Markus exhales slowly. “This isn’t recruitment.”
He looks at you. At Connor.
“It’s restoring agency.”
Josh closes his eyes for a beat. Then nods.
The room settles.
Markus straightens. “We coordinate timelines. While we disrupt the camps, you hit the tower.”
North smiles, sharp. “They won’t know where to look.”
“That’s the point,” Connor says.
You meet his eyes again. Fear, yes. But no doubt.
“We plan this properly,” you say. “No improvising.”
“Agreed.”
The paths are set.
Different. Dangerous.
Necessary.
“We’ll take five,” Markus says. “Then we plan.”
“Okay.” You step away. “I want to check in with Hazel.”
You find Hazel alone, sitting near the side aisle where the light doesn’t quite reach. She’s perched on the edge of a pew, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor.
She looks up when she sees you.
Connor stops a step behind you.
You both sit.
Hazel studies you for a second.
“You look like you’ve made up your mind,” she says.
You huff softly. “Yeah.”
“Is it dangerous,” she asks, “or is it one of those things people call ‘necessary’ when it’s both?”
You glance at Connor. Then back to her. “Necessary.”
She exhales through her nose. Not relieved. Bracing. “Okay. What is it?”
You explain briefly. No speeches. Sabotage, not war. Camps disrupted. People extracted.
Hazel nods as you talk, absorbing it piece by piece.
Then you add, “But Connor and I aren’t going with Markus.”
Her eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
Connor answers this time. “At the CyberLife Tower... There’s a storage facility with thousands of androids kept offline.”
Hazel’s jaw tightens. “Asleep.”
“Yes.” You say. “And they won’t be spared when the system starts to fail.”
Hazel lets out a slow breath. “So you’re going to wake them.”
“And let them choose,” you say.
She stares at you for a long moment. “That sounds terrifying.”
“It is,” you agree.
“And dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And you could die.”
You don’t argue with that either.
“But you’re not asking me to come,” she says.
It’s not a question.
You shake your head. “No. You don’t have to fight. You don’t have to keep running.”
Connor adds, “Markus needs people here with the injured. With the ones who can’t move fast.”
Hazel nods once.
“Good,” she says. “Because I’m done throwing myself into fires just because someone else needs it.”
She hesitates, then adds, quieter, “I just want to stay alive. And I want to find Cherry.”
You take her hand. To meet her where she is.
“Then that’s your choice,” you say. “And it’s a good one.”
Hazel’s shoulders loosen—just a fraction.
“Okay,” she says. “I can do that.”
She looks between you and Connor. “You'd better come back.”
You don’t promise what you can’t guarantee.
“We’ll try,” you say.
Connor nods. “And we’ll look for Cherry.”
Hazel closes her eyes briefly, then opens them again.
“Alright,” she says. “Then I’ll be here when you do.”
Suddenly, a voice carries through the church. Steady enough that it reaches the far corners of the nave.
“Everyone.”
The sound shifts. Movement slows. Conversations fall away in pieces, like breath being held one person at a time.
You turn.
Markus stands at the front of the church, near what used to be the altar. He doesn’t raise his hands. He doesn’t ask for silence. He waits until it comes on its own.
“I know what they’ve taken from us,” he says. “And I know what they’re doing right now, while we’re standing here.”
The church is silent.
“They want us hidden. Contained. Processed until there’s nothing left to erase. We’re done letting them decide that for us.”
A beat.
“This isn’t about revenge. And it’s not about throwing ourselves into a fight we can’t survive. It’s about breaking the systems that keep us trapped. Opening doors they think are sealed. Making it impossible for them to keep pretending this is under control.”
He looks out over you all.
“We’re not here to die loudly. We’re here to live—and to make sure no one disappears without being seen again.”
He doesn’t hesitate now.
“Are you ready to follow me?”
For a split second, the question hangs.
Then the church answers him.
“Yes!”“We’re ready!”“Yes, Markus!”
The sound surges upward, filling the broken nave, spilling out through shattered glass and open doors—a roar of choice, of movement, of something finally beginning.
You feel Connor at your side. Hazel too.
The church isn’t holding its breath anymore.
It’s exhaling.