Mekka's parents lived in a narrow row house on the edge of the Slant—a place that, until now, Zahir had only been there a handful of times. It used to smell like spiced bread and laundry soap.
Now, the windows were barred. The front door was triple-latched. No voices drifted out.
Zahir hesitated at the threshold. If Mekka was recovering here, her parents had to be furious. Maybe even terrified.
He raised a hand to knock, then froze.
A tension knotted inside him.
One part of him burned with guilt, wanted to vanish before she could say the things he already believed about himself.
But another part—sharper, still burning from the ruins—felt like he deserved this moment. He had accomplished their goal, after all.
The two urges collided beneath his skin, equal and at odds. For a breathless second, he held both states at once. Then the pressure passed.
He lowered his fist and knocked softly.
Nothing.
He knocked again, louder.
A chain scraped. Then a woman's voice, sharp and controlled, cut through the wood. "We're not interested."
Zahir pressed a hand against the metal. "It's me. Zahir."
Silence.
Then locks turned. The door cracked open. Mekka's mother stared at him—shoulders squared, eyes lit with fury dulled by exhaustion.
"You have some nerve," she said. "She almost died, you know."
Zahir swallowed, unsure what to say.
This woman had always radiated calm strength—a presence Mekka never hesitated to brag about. Her eyes, deep indigo with gold flecks, mirrored her daughter's. But the warmth was gone, replaced by a raw, razor-edged protectiveness.
"I—I just need to see her," Zahir managed.
Her eyes narrowed. "She's in bandages because of your stunts. Why would I let you near her?"
Behind her, Mekka's father stood silent, face hard.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Zahir said. "I just… I need to know what happened."
"You already know," her mother said, bitterness rising. "You led her into a ditch and left her bleeding."
Ouch.
A rasping voice floated from the hallway: "Ma, let him in."
Zahir knew that voice. Mekka.
Her mother's mouth tightened. For a moment she looked torn, then her hand fell from the door. "Five minutes," she said, still glaring.
"I understand," Zahir said.
The living room smelled like antiseptic and warm plastic. Mekka lay half-upright on a couch-bed, wrapped in fresh gauze.
Her skin was pale, breath shallow—but her eyes, sharp as ever, shimmered faintly with violet and gold.
Her curls were loose, matted at the roots, falling in uneven spirals around her face and shoulders. Normally she wore them tied up—but he knew why she hadn't. The wrap she always used—the violet and teal one—was the same he'd found stained with blood beneath the rubble.
"Guess you're not a corpse after all," she rasped.
Zahir approached the bed, voice low. "You look—"
"Shitty?" She pressed a hand to the bandages on her side, face twisting with pain. "Doc said a centimeter deeper and I'd be bagged."
Her gaze settled on him with a flicker of resentment. "Could've sworn I was the one who told you it was a bad idea."
He exhaled, trying to breathe out the knot in his gut. "I know. You did. I…"
"And then you vanished. We—I—thought you were dead."
Zahir's chest constricted. "Mekka, I Just needed to know you were okay, and find out what happened."
"Why? What can you even do? The Wellspring is gone. You know what they're going to do with it. They took Brin. They beat Elai to pieces. It's over Z. We lost."
The Wellspring was Mekka's parents' business, a local recovery clinic with a couple locations in their district. It was built around her father's rare latent ability to locate soul-restorative water. They'd turned it into a sanctuary—part treatment center, part community anchor. Now it was a prize. If BQP had taken it, they wouldn't just milk it—they'd repurpose it. A front. A revenue stream. A control point. That's how this worked. Zahir would've done the same, if he were them.
Her parents were going to lose the Wellspring whether they succeeded or not. But that wasn't what hit him hardest.
"What do you mean they took Brin?"
"They caught him first. Back at the junction. That's probably how they found the fallback."
Zahir's stomach dropped.
He'd heard whispers. BQP dosing street kids with off-market primer, trying to force breakthroughs. The ones who survived got drafted. The rest disappeared.
"They came the next night," Mekka continued. "Looking for the tribute. When it wasn't there, they made it clear—it was retaliation."
"Did you recognize any of them?"
"That big guy. I saw him when Dross met with my parents. Kazak?"
"Kasik," Zahir confirmed.
"Didn't say much. Just started breaking things. He stomped Elai out. I thought they were gonna kill him. That guy moves like a steel beam. I bet his signature's some kind of iron alloy."
Her voice dimmed. "I passed out before they left."
Zahir's throat tightened. "And Elai?"
"He got me out. Carried me here. Then vanished. Haven't heard a word since." She looked down. "You know how he gets."
Zahir nodded slowly. "I'll find him."
Mekka's eyes narrowed. "You never answered my question, Z. And do what? They run the district now. If they see you, you're dead."
He hesitated. "I found something down there."
She waited.
"It's complicated," he said. "But I think I broke through."
She blinked. "You what?"
"Base rank," he said softly. "The whole reason we needed the primers in the first place."
She blinked again, like she hadn't heard him right. "Zahir, you can't even access the Lattice. How could you possibly—?"
"I know. But it happened."
Her eyes scanned him—top to bottom, trying to catch what felt off. Same compact frame. Same big brown eyes. Same scar cutting across his button nose. Same unruly curls springing into a frizzy, spiked mess he never bothered taming. And the same slight twitch in his jaw when he was thinking.
But something was different.
She met his gaze—and flinched. His pupils blurred slightly, as if her focus slid for half a second before snapping back.
She blinked, unsettled.
"So you're what, an Innovator now?" she said. "Good for you." Her voice was flat. "But you can't honestly think that makes this better."
"I didn't say it fixed things."
"Then what?" she snapped. "Was any of this worth it, Zahir?"
He started to speak—then stopped. Her words cut deep, because they were right.
Tears welled up. A few days ago, he'd have buried them. But not now.
"I thought I lost all of you," he said. "It's my fault. I can't undo it. I'm not asking for forgiveness. But I can make it mean something."
"I don't want you to," she said quietly. "You don't owe me redemption, Zahir. I just need you to stop trying to help my family. We're good."
What could he say to that?
She was right. He had only made things worse.
What the hell had he been thinking?
He was a street rat, a dirty block boy. What gave him the right to make promises?
He nodded silently, then reached into his bag to pull out her wrap.
He set it on the side of her bed, then slipped away, past her parents' cold glares, out into the amber-washed stillness of early evening.
The sun was lower now, turning the Slant's jagged rooftops into shards of gold and shadow.
He started walking without thinking about where he was going. He hadn't considered anything past seeing Mekka. But now, knowing she was alive—safe, for now—his only instinct was to get as far away from her family as possible.
If he was BQP, he would have someone casing their spot to protect their new asset.
He crossed the street without lifting his gaze, slipping between two rusted fence posts into a vacant lot overrun with scaffolding and weeds. Every few steps he glanced behind him, hyper-aware of eyes that might be tracking him.
His gut twisted bitterly as he moved.
His prediction about what had happened in his absence had been mostly right, save for a few details, like the fact that Brin had been taken night of their hit, or the fact that Elai had at least gotten Mekka out then gone dark. But so what? Being right didn't mean shit.
He was the reason they were in this mess to begin with. He'd practically handed BQP everything they needed, gift-wrapped in his own reckless bravado.
"Stupid," he hissed, slamming his fist against his temple. The pain was sharp. Familiar. Deserved.
He'd always pictured himself as some kind of savior, the block boy who could outsmart the entire system. But standing here now, with clarity that came too late, he saw it for what it was: denial.
Going into all of this, the ugly truth was that he hadn't believed he had anything to lose. His heart had been calloused. Everyone else's safety and lives were as expendable as his. His moves hadn't just been risky—they were self-sabotage.
Why did it take this much damage to make him see it? He'd finally gotten the power he wanted—and lost everything that mattered.
There was only one move left to salvage things: find Elai. Somehow, rescue Brin. He was willing to let them go after he made sure they were safe. And start climbing from the bottom from there.
In the meantime, Zahir had nowhere to go.
Well, that wasn't exactly true.
There was one place he could go—the last place he wanted to.
Home.
His ribs tightened at the thought. But with the fallback torched, the crew scattered, and BQP swarming the Slant, his options were shrinking fast.
He exhaled, pulled his hood up, and turned toward the nearest transit stop.
That's when he caught it. A faint, high-pitched whine at the edge of hearing. A soft flicker of motion in his periphery.
He looked up.
A black dot hovered against the smog-gray sky, barely visible—a surveillance drone. Small, quiet, built for neighborhood sweeps. Standard BQP tech. Nothing special.
Except for the way it was holding position. Tracking.
Zahir's pulse slowed. His mind sharpened.
It wasn't watching the street.
It was watching him.