The apartment Sasha had chosen was a corpse of a home—cracked drywall, mold-laced ceilings, a half-collapsed hallway. But it had walls, a door, and a roof. In Empire City's Historic District, that passed for a fortress.
Damian pushed the warped door shut behind them and bolted it with a length of scavenged piping. He let the silence settle. For now, they were safe.
The Conduits stood in the center of the gutted living room, dazed and wary. The floors creaked beneath them. Glass crunched under their boots. It smelled like mildew and decay.
"We'll rest here," Damian said. "No lights, no sound near the windows. We stay quiet, we stay safe."
No one moved at first. Then Grace stepped forward, calm despite the tension in her shoulders. She knelt beside Elliot, who had sunk to the floor, hugging his knees.
Damian scanned the group, checking posture, skin tone, and eye clarity. Stress, fatigue, and minor burns. No injuries, well none that they couldn't sleep off. The psychic strain, though, that would linger.
"Sasha," he said without looking back. "Outside. Reset."
She nodded and stepped out through the broken hallway, activating her cloak. When she returned two minutes later, the illusion was gone.
The Conduits looked up at the sound of footsteps—different footsteps. A new face.
Her skin tone was a deepened rich, dark brown, making her appearance striking. Her hair was long, with dark brown locks cascading down her back. Her facial features had high cheekbones, a low brow, and eyes that were a deep almond shape that added an air of mystery. Her nose was delicate, her lips full, but her faint smile didn't reach her eyes. She wore form-fitted black jeans, a light cream turtleneck, and a prominent hooded red winter wool coat.
"Who's that?" Jason asked, already squinting.
"Name's Janet," Sasha said smoothly. "I've been working with Alex here to take down the First Son and get you guys out of there. I ran point on surveillance and misdirection."
Grace's brows twitched slightly, but she said nothing. Marissa blinked. Rachel just flipped her coin and caught it without looking.
Jason wasn't satisfied. "So we're just… trusting anyone who shows up now?"
"Not anyone," Damian said. "Her. Without her, we would be out here now."
Sasha walked past them and leaned against the wall beside the window. She looked out through a gap in the boards. "You've all got thirty-six hours to stay put and stay alive. If you can manage that, you might actually make it out of this part of the city."
The weight of her tone silenced the room.
Grace exhaled slowly and turned toward Damian. "We need a real plan," she said, her voice soft but deliberate. "We're out—but now what?"
The fallout came quickly.
Elliot's breathing turned shaky. "We shouldn't be here. We're going to get caught. The… the First Sons won't stop looking."
Jason's voice cut through. "He's right. And we don't even know what you two want. You say you're helping us—but why?"
"No one does this for free," he added.
"We're alive," Rachel said without looking up. Her coin spun across her fingers. "That's worth something."
Marissa crossed her arms. "My sister's probably watching the news right now, wondering if I'm dead. We have to tell someone. The government doesn't even know what's going on in here."
Damian glanced toward her, curious. "You think DARPA's unaware of what goes on inside this city? They know if you don't believe me, ask Grace."
Grace's lips parted, but nothing came out. The silence spoke for her.
"They're the ones who worked with the First Sons to run experiments, and when the First Sons went rogue, they set up the Quarantine," he continued. "The ones who authorized the Ray Sphere tests. If you call them, they won't rescue you. They'll retrieve you."
That hung in the air like smoke.
Rachel flicked her coin again. "Tails."
This time, she didn't show the result.
Later, Grace approached Damian on the apartment's balcony—an exposed ledge half-devoured by rust and wind. Below, the ruined streets of the Historic District stretched in every direction, a tapestry of war zones and crumbling grandeur.
"I have to ask," she said. "If we tried… reached out to someone—DARPA, a whistleblower, someone clean—could we leave? With protection?"
Damian leaned on the railing, hands clasped. "You'd get one of two outcomes. One, they ignore you and let the First Sons finish the job. Two, they capture you quietly and continue the experiments under their own logo. It's a new era, Grace, and the currency of this new era is super soldiers. DARPA wouldn't waste an opportunity to use each of you, and you should be more than anyone else here, be aware of that."
Grace didn't look away. "Yes, you're probably right, but we should still try. If we don't, then that's not certainty, it's fear."
"No," he said. "It's experience."
She nodded, but her disappointment was palpable.
Inside, Sasha watched through a crack in the doorway, her expression unreadable. She wasn't just assessing threats. She was evaluating opportunities. Grace was impressive—calm under pressure, focused, and persuasive. She had the aura of a leader. The kind a network could form around.
But Rachel… There was something deeper there. Something strange. Her foresight bordered on precognition. Her disconnection from emotion could be strategic or symptomatic. Sasha marked her mentally as a wildcard.
She'd need to choose carefully.
That evening, Damian gathered them all again.
"As I was saying before, the plan is to wait," he said. "For now, we have intel that a man named Alden Tate. A powerful Conduit and the true heir of the First Sons will soon execute an attack on Kessler, the current leader of the First Sons. When that happens, we can slip away unnoticed."
"Then why aren't we helping him? If he's fighting those bastards, they should be our allies." Jason asked.
"Because the Warren and Historic District will become a war zone. Also, Alden Tate is no better than Kessle,r trust me on that. When the commotion happens, we head for the bridge. That's when we make our move."
"What bridge?" Elliot asked.
Damian pointed on the worn map that Sasha brought out. "The one linking the Historic and Warren Districts. The bridge straight to the Neon District is gone. The DARPA-controlled bridge to the Warren is sealed. The only opening will be when all eyes are elsewhere."
"So we hide until then," Marissa said flatly.
"We wait," Grace corrected. "And stay sharp."
As the group dispersed, Damian stepped outside to the rooftop.
The wind was stronger here. A hawk circled above, one of the few signs of life in this sector.
And behind it, higher, silent, gleaming—a surveillance drone hovered at the edge of a broken skyscraper.
Inside the drone's feed, Kessler watched.
His face was pale in the dim light, expression carved from stone.
A voice behind him whispered, "They're still in the district. No movement was seen at the bridge."
Kessler nodded once. "Find them."
He turned toward the shadows beyond the monitor.
"I'm not that patient of a man. So I do hope you'll be quick about it."