The light was warm.
Not like the harsh orange of a battlefield flare, or the sterile hum of medbay panels—but real sunlight, filtering through wooden window slats and falling in fractured angles across the floor. It stretched long across the old pine boards, highlighting every scuff, every knot in the grain. Dust hung suspended in the air, caught in its path like it had nowhere better to be.
The house was quiet. Still.
The kettle sat on the stove, half-full. A chipped mug waited beside the sink. The solar panel controller blinked a low green from its spot near the door, just like always. One of the chairs had a missing back slat, just like always. And when Lina stepped forward, one floorboard let out a low, familiar creak.
It was all the same.
Exactly the same.
Like he had just stepped outside.
She turned—and there he was.
Kai sat in the windowsill, one leg pulled up, the other dangling lazily over the edge, backlit by soft morning light. He wasn't looking at her yet—just staring into the trees, arm draped along the frame. His hair was longer than she remembered. His jacket looked too thin for the season. But the shape of him—tilted spine, bent wrist, half-smirk ghosting at the edge of his mouth—was the same.
He looked over.
Tilted his head.
"You're late."
Lina laughed before she meant to, breath catching halfway up her chest—and then the door creaked open.
"Someone brought real coffee?" a voice called.
Boots thudded in across the porch, and one by one, the others stepped inside.
Juno dropped his gear beside the door, already shrugging off his coat. Tess moved without a word, leaning in the doorway with arms folded and that familiar sharpness in her eyes. Roan went straight for the cabinets, humming tunelessly as he pulled down a mismatched row of mugs. Vern gave her a nod—brief, tired—and passed Elya something small and silver, as if handing off intel.
For a few moments, it felt like nothing had changed.
Like they'd never left.
Like none of it had ever gone wrong.
"You missed the last run," Juno said, grinning. "Took us ten minutes longer without your dramatic entrances."
"Eleven," Roan added from the sink.
Kai gave her a look like, see what you missed?
And Lina—
She almost believed it.
Almost.
The light shifted.
Not gradually. Not with time. Just—shifted.
Paled. Flattened. The warmth pulled away from the edges of the room, and the sunlight on the floor turned colorless, almost grey.
Tess spoke again, but her words didn't land right. Too slow. Slightly off. Like an old tape reel stuttering.
Roan poured coffee into a cup that vanished the moment she blinked.
Juno's laugh came a second too late.
Vern's fingers moved, but nothing was in his hands anymore.
Then they all looked at her
Together.
They were still standing, smiling at her.
But something behind their eyes had gone quiet.
"You weren't supposed to touch it," Juno said.
"You always break things," Tess added, brushing nothing from her sleeves.
Roan's voice was softer, now flat:
"We told you."
And Kai—
He hadn't moved.
But his smile had disappeared.
He stood.
"You weren't one of us. Not really."
The wood beneath her feet cracked. The shadows broke.
And the house began to come apart—
in silence.
Darkness peeled away.
Her eyes snapped open—too fast, too dry. Her breath came in short, ragged pulls, chest heaving like she'd surfaced from drowning.
The dream was gone. But the voice remained.
The ceiling above her was paneled wood, warm-toned and slightly uneven, old enough to creak but clean enough to care for. The walls were matte steel softened with pale cloth drapes, and somewhere near the far corner, a slow fan turned in lazy circles above a potted plant—broad green leaves catching light from a slit in the ceiling.
The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, but beneath it, something gentler—dried herbs, sun-warmed dust.
Through a half-open window near the far wall, soft sunlight filtered in across the floor—clean, gold-edged, the kind that didn't sting.
Outside, she glimpsed a low courtyard bordered by narrow garden beds and pale stone paths. A windchime stirred faintly from one corner, catching the breeze in metallic murmurs.
Somewhere beyond the wall, birds were singing.
Not warning sirens. Not patrol hums.
Just birds.
This didn't look like a Sector Nine medbay.
Her right hand twitched—too fast. Too smooth.
She looked.
And froze.
The fingers weren't hers. They flexed, almost naturally. But she didn't know how to tell them what to do.
Pale, seamless plates arched over the knuckles where skin used to be.
Fine silver lines pulsed beneath the surface—clean, perfect, utterly foreign.
Her chest locked.
She jerked back, instinct screaming, and the movement yanked at her spine—hard, wrong. A white flash of pain shot up her side and left her gasping, twisted halfway off the cot.
"Easy—hey, hey, no," came a voice—low, calm, close.
Elya's hands caught her shoulders before she could fall.
"It's okay," she said gently, steadying her. "You're safe. You're in medical."
Lina's eyes were wide, locked on her hand. The metal shimmered faintly in the half-light.
"That's not mine," she whispered.
"No," Elya said softly. "But it's still you."
She adjusted the blanket up around Lina's back, careful not to touch the arm again.
"And for what it's worth?" she added, voice quieter now, with a wry kind of tiredness.
"It's a damn clean graft. Better than most we see."
She paused, glancing at the readout near the bedside.
"Not standard rebel tech. Someone wanted you alive, and someone knew what they were doing."
Lina didn't answer.
Her breath was still too fast, too shallow. Her left hand curled into the blanket like it could ground her, like she could keep part of herself normal just by holding tight.
But her right hand—
It stayed still.
Waiting.
She wasn't sure it would ever feel like hers again.
She didn't move for a while.
The room held still with her—just the quiet hum of medical systems and the occasional breath of wind stirring the curtains.
Then she heard it.
"You're stable," not unkind. But unmistakably official.
It was a man's voice—not gruff, not warm, but balanced. Like someone trained to speak clearly, carefully, and only when necessary. Something about the tone pulled her fully awake.
Her eyes found him slowly—too clean, too still. Her instincts recoiled first, before her mind caught up.
Voices like his usually meant orders. And consequences.
He stood by the far wall, posture straight despite the relaxed stance—arms folded over a lean, military-cut jacket. The lines of the fabric sat clean over his frame—broad through the shoulders, but without show. His hair was ash-grey, cropped short at the sides, a few strands falling loose across his brow. His face was young—maybe not much older than hers—but his eyes had seen more than his age should allow.
On the left side of his chest, stitched just above the strap seam, was a sigil she didn't recognize—
a pale ember against a dark field, a minimalist design: no crest, no rank, just the outline of a flickering flame.
Not part of the rebel factions she remembered.
"We talked. Briefly," he said.
The voice matched with the one from the comm. Calm under pressure. The one that told her to run.
Lina stiffened. Her breath caught. The question came before her mouth could shape it.
"I'm Senn," he said, as if answering anyway. "Tactical adviser. I handle external feeds and field support."
She wanted to ask—about Kai, about the sword, about what he knew.
Elya adjusted the blanket around her shoulders without a word, her hands practiced, gentle. One palm rested briefly against Lina's neck, checking her temperature again.
Lina didn't flinch. Somehow, the quiet presence at her side made it easier to keep breathing.
But her throat locked. Her body still hadn't caught up with her mind.
Senn didn't press.
He simply watched, quiet and patient, like someone used to waiting out storms.
"You'll have better questions when you're not half-unconscious," he said, stepping toward the door. "And I'll still be here when you do."
He paused at the threshold, one hand resting briefly on the frame.
"Take your time," he said, voice steady. "Just… heal up, alright?"
Then he was gone.
Her body gave out before she could say anything else.
She closed her eyes—and slept.
She drifted in and out of sleep.
Voices came and went.
Soft footsteps. The click of Elya's boots.
Once, someone was arguing outside the room—Arlen, by the sharpness.
Another time, Rei's voice muttered something about "overclocked hero types" and the clatter of a snack bar hitting the floor.
Sometimes she felt warmth on her back, a cooling gel being reapplied.
Other times, just silence.
And now and then, she caught the faint scent of old wood polish and warm metal—sunlight slipping in through somewhere half-sealed, stirring up the kind of dust that didn't sting, just lingered, soft and tired like breath held too long.
But slowly—too slowly—she started to come back.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep, but when the door opened again, it wasn't quiet.
"Still alive," Rei announced, voice echoing just enough to be intentional. The overhead light caught on his shaved scalp as he stepped in—bare, polished, and somehow smug. "That's promising."
Lina didn't bother opening her eyes right away.
"And talking to yourself," Arlen added dryly. "Which is less promising."
She blinked. The room had changed. The lights were dimmer, maybe evening. Elya was gone. Someone—Rei, probably—had left a packet of something half-crumpled on the bedside table. A protein brick, still in its crinkled foil.
"Good," Rei said. "You're conscious. Means I don't have to eat this alone."
He tossed her the packet. It bounced off her arm. She didn't catch it.
"Fig paste," he offered. "Flavor of champions."
"Don't offer her trash," Arlen said flatly, still by the door—arms crossed, spikes of hair shadowing his eyes.
Lina tried to sit up. Failed.
She hadn't seen either of them clearly before. Now, under proper lighting, they looked like rough drafts from two different comics. One forgot hair entirely, the other never met a comb.
Rei took pity and pulled a stool closer, flipping it around and resting his arms on the back.
"You're probably wondering what happened."
She nodded—barely.
"We didn't win, if that's what you're thinking," he said, smile crooked. "But we didn't die either, which is sort of our signature move."
Arlen stepped inside now, arms crossed. "You're assuming she knows anything."
Rei gestured like he'd been planning to get there. "Seraphs were recalibrating. We bought time. Senn called in relay support from one of the eastern cells. Light infantry, smoke wall, quick med-pull. Clean evac."
Lina's brow furrowed. "There are more of you."
Arlen shrugged. "Enough to buy time."
She hesitated, then said it before she lost the nerve.
"What about the base?"
Her throat caught, but she kept going.
"And Kai. And my father. No one's said anything."
Rei stopped fidgeting. Just for a second.
"That's above our clearance," he said, softer this time. "You want answers like that—you can ask Senn."
Arlen didn't argue. Just nodded once, but his eyes flicked to her. Then he looked away.
Lina didn't speak again, but her gaze sharpened. She caught the flicker in Arlen's eyes.
He knew something. Or had seen something. And he wasn't saying it.
She wouldn't forget that.
Rei caught it—and true to form, bulldozed through like it wasn't even there.
"And your sword," Rei added, like it was an afterthought. Creepy thing. Fully sealed, no more pulsing. We locked it in secondary storage for now. Mostly so Arlen would stop staring at it."
"I was analyzing it."
"You were definitely staring."
Lina looked away, but the heat in her chest hadn't faded. The sword… had followed her into sleep. She wasn't even sure if it had let go.
"Thanks," she murmured. It came out rough. But it was real.
Neither of them said anything right away.
Then Rei leaned forward, elbow on knee.
"You know," he said, almost conversational, "you looked like hell, but… none of us have ever seen someone use one of those things without, you know, upgrades."
He tipped his head slightly, studying her.
"You actually managed to hit one of them with it?" he asked, a mix of curiosity and something sharper.
Rei let the question hang for a beat, then added—still casual, but not careless:
"That blade's not meant for anyone without half a spinal graft and a prayer."
Lina's fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.
She hated that tone—the thin thread of disbelief beneath the curiosity. Hated being weighed, measured. Judged.
Her throat was dry, but her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"It stayed," she said. "So I made it count."
She knew she hadn't lasted long after that—the crash still lived somewhere deep in her bones—but she also knew this:
She hadn't let go first.
He nodded once, slower this time, like he was seeing her differently.
"Fair enough."
He leaned back a little, tone loosening.
"Well, whatever you did—it kept you breathing. And it made one of those bastards lose an arm. So, you know... keep not remembering."
Lina exhaled softly through her nose, a breath that wasn't quite a laugh.
More like the sound of someone too tired to argue—and too stubborn to regret.
Then her gaze shifted.
Rei leaned back slightly on the stool, and the movement drew her eyes to his jacket.
There, just over the chest strap, was a patch—black cloth faded at the edges, a single pale flame stitched into the center. Minimalist. Flickering. Alive.
She stared at it for a second longer than she meant to.
She spotted her coat on the nearby chair—cleaned, folded. The rebel insignia still marked the shoulder: a sword and a rifle, crossed hard. The kind of symbol made to be seen, shouted, feared.
"That's not standard rebel insignia," she said finally, voice still rough. "It's not what we wore."
Rei followed her gaze, then shrugged.
"Ash Light," he said. "Not a faction. Not really."
He peeled the corner of the foil on his protein brick, then glanced at her again.
"We're not flying a flag. We're just holding the last light."
Arlen didn't look over. Just shifted his stance slightly, like he'd heard it too many times before—and never corrected him.
A quiet clink caught her attention. Rei reached into a pocket, pulling out something small, delicate, silver glinting softly in the dim overhead lights.
"Almost forgot," he said casually, leaning forward to press it gently into her palm. "Found this near you after the evac. Figured it mattered."
Her breath caught. She closed her fingers around the thin chain, heart suddenly tight in her chest.
"Thanks," she murmured, voice quieter than she intended.
Rei just nodded, expression softening briefly before he leaned back again.
Lina didn't reply further, just let her fingers drift once more over the insignia stitched into her old coat—sword and rifle, crossed hard. Sharp lines. Proud.
She wasn't sure it meant anything anymore.