Darkness, first.
Then smoke.
The kind that clings to your throat, stings your eyes, and leaves its taste on your tongue before the fire even touches skin.
Mason turned down a hallway that stretched too far. The wallpaper peeled. The floorboards warped beneath his boots. Every footstep echoed like it was underwater.
"Jean?"
His voice came out muffled. Distant. Warped by memory or something worse.
A flash at the end of the corridor.
Then a gunshot.
BANG.
Silence followed.
He ran.
But the hallway kept stretching. Time bent. The walls closed in like a vice.
Click.
He spun.
The agent was there—again—just like that day. Bruised. Bleeding. Grinning with one good eye, madness dancing in the other.
"You can't save her," the agent slurred, lips slick with blood. "You never could."
BANG.
The bullet cut through the dream like a blade slicing fog.
Mason's hands lit with fire—wild, green, unstable. Too bright for the dream to hold.
But still… too slow.
The bullet missed him.
It didn't miss her.
Jean stumbled into view from behind him, still wearing her kitchen apron. She held a metal ladle like a shield. It clattered to the floor.
Blood blossomed across her ribs like a red flower blooming in time-lapse.
"No—NO!"
He lunged—time cracked and slowed—but she was already sinking.
He caught her.
Her hand was warm. Then cooler. Then still.
"Grandma, stay with me. Please—don't do this."
Her lips twitched in a faint smile. Red stained her teeth. That same crooked grin she'd always flash just before scolding him for sneaking hot sauce into his Pop-Tarts.
"Pop-Tart boy…" she whispered, breath shallow. "Can punch…"
She laughed weakly. A sound too alive for this dead place.
"Don't waste it, baby. Don't waste this gift."
He shook his head. "Stop it—stop talking like that. We'll get help. Quinn's rich—we've got tech, we can fix this—"
She gripped his wrist one last time.
"Always hated cinnamon… too sweet…"
She chuckled. Glitched. Broken. The laugh echoed like static in a dead signal.
"You're gonna burn so bright, kid…"
Her eyes fluttered shut.
But then—just before the dream collapsed—she opened them one final time.
"And get a girlfriend who knows how to give a good blowjob…"
The dream cracked.
Reality shattered around him like glass punched by thunder.
Her grip went limp.
She exhaled.
She didn't inhale again.
Mason screamed.
"NOOOOO—"
Green fire burst from his chest. His whole body ignited. Light consumed the dream.
Mason woke with a full-body jolt—drenched in sweat, chest heaving, eyes blazing like twin reactors. The sheets around him were scorched. Faint trails of smoke rose from his fists.
Sky was already there.
Barefoot. Bare-faced. Wearing only a long shirt and worry.
She didn't speak. Just crossed the room and slowly knelt beside him.
His breath trembled. The dream still clung to him like smoke.
"She was all I had," he whispered. "The only one who gave a damn."
Sky reached out, brushed back his damp hair. Her voice was low.
"She still does. Even now. And maybe... just maybe… she's the reason you'll survive what's coming."
He finally exhaled.
She stayed.
The Next Morning
Light streamed through the reinforced tower glass—clean, cold, and golden. A city of steel buzzed below: sirens, rotors, the low hum of civilization grinding forward.
Mason sat on the rooftop ledge, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, legs dangling over open sky. A chipped mug steamed between his hands—black coffee. The way Jean liked it.
He stared into it like it held the answers.
"You didn't scream this time," came a voice behind him.
Sky.
She was in an oversized T-shirt—probably Quinn's—and carried her own mug. Hair in a messy braid, dark circles under her eyes. Exhaustion had never looked so sharp.
"Didn't sleep much either," Mason said.
Sky dropped down beside him. The wind picked at her hair.
"My dad used to say people only dream that loud when something's trying to break out. Grief. Guilt. Rage. Doesn't matter. It always finds a way."
Mason sipped.
Then, quietly, "Ever feel like the world moved on without you? And now you're sprinting just to stay behind?"
Sky looked at him—not at his face, but into it.
"Every damn day."
Silence.
Then Mason let out a breath that wasn't a laugh, but wasn't pain either.
"Thanks. For last night."
Sky shrugged, a small smirk playing at the edge of her lips.
"You think I stayed because I had to?"
"You think Quinn told me to?"
He blinked at her.
Her grin sharpened.
"You might be emotionally repressed and prone to explosive rage, but I've got a thing for guys who glow like nuclear Christmas trees."
Mason actually laughed. A short, surprised sound.
"That's messed up."
"That's honesty."
They sat together in comfortable silence.
Then Mason said, "I'm not a hero. I'm not the chosen one. I'm just... me."
Sky leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Exactly. That's why we like you."
Briefing Room – One Hour Later
The SkyCore briefing room hummed in cold, sterile light. Green-blue holoscreens glowed midair, data flowing like veins of light.
Steel sat at the far end of the table. Stoic. Silent. Armor-dark eyes. The green of his suit shimmered faintly, like energy just beneath the skin.
Sky stood at the interface, hair up, tapping commands into a floating console. Sharp lines. Sharper focus.
Quinn leaned in the corner, half-shadow, eyes always calculating.
Cal sipped from a mug that probably hadn't been washed since yesterday. Black as tar. Steam curled like a serpent.
Sky began.
"After Korshinov died, his empire fractured. Like a rotten tooth snapped at the root."
A map of Eastern Europe blinked to life. It zoomed—Volgograd.
"Three lieutenants made a grab for power. One vanished into the Caucasus. One died in a turf war. But the third?"
The map locked onto a red dot buried deep in frost.
"She didn't run."
Liliya Volnova.
Former Russian intel. Now a warlord. Cold. Precise. Lethal.
"She seized control of Korshinov's syndicate like it was always hers. And she's not just selling weapons anymore."
The screen shifted—grainy footage of cybernetic mercs. Chrome jaws. Mech-limbs. Human eyes that weren't.
"She's auctioning tuned humans. Black-market metas. Gen-spliced assassins. No conscience. No leash."
Cal grunted. "Word is she's rebooted Korshinov's old pet project. Ember."
Mason stirred. "Project Ember?"
Sky nodded grimly. "Gene catalysts. Accelerated evolution. Illegal as hell. Lethal if it works."
"And Ash Fall?" Mason asked, voice like stone.
Quinn stepped forward.
"She's not Ash Fall. But she's flirting with them."
Sky tapped again. A new image—an infrared still of a cargo drop in frozen terrain.
No logos.
But embedded in the alloy—
The Ash Fall emblem.
Mason narrowed his eyes. "They're like smoke. Always there. Never solid."
"Exactly," Quinn replied. "That's why we don't chase shadows. We break their chain. Link by link."
Cal tossed his empty mug in the bin. "Volgograd's next. If Liliya's dealing in Ash Fall tech, she's infected. That makes her fair game."
Sky turned to Mason, eyes soft but firm.
"You're going in alone."
He didn't hesitate. "Drop me."
Quinn smirked faintly.
"No signals. No drones. No comms. Just you, your fists, and that nuclear temper you call a superpower."
Cal muttered, "And maybe a thermal vest?"
Steel stood. Flexed his hands. Green light shimmered faintly beneath the skin.
"Fire keeps me warm."
As the doors hissed open, Sky paused at the console.
She didn't speak.
Just stared at one last encrypted file.
PROJECT: EMBER – TERMINATED
Status: Recovered by Unknown Party
Whatever it was… it hadn't stayed dead.
And it was waiting in Volgograd.