Rain in No Man’s Land accumulated.

It struck the ground in heavy, uneven bursts, each drop thick enough to leave a mark in the blackened sludge below. Rust bled into the runoff, turning every shallow stream into something dark and streaked like the land itself was dissolving.

The structures around you leaned inward the farther you went, warped beams and collapsed frames forming narrow corridors of shadow. Water struck everything, loud, constant, disorienting.

You saw him before you fully registered what you were looking at.

A shape against the ruin. Alto.

He was half-kneeling against a jut of twisted steel, one hand braced hard enough into the ground that his fingers had sunk into the softened layer of rust and sludge. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly beneath the weight of his soaked cloak, fabric dragging heavy.

The gloves. Those things. Sat wrong on him.

Too present. The Watchman symbol embedded into them seemed to catch the dim light unnaturally.

Alto’s head hung low at first. Still. Silent.

Then your foot shifted. Barely anything.

He reacted instantly.

His head snapped up so fast it looked unnatural, jerky, sharp, like something yanked him into motion instead of him choosing it.

Those red eyes locked onto you. Wide. Too wide. The thin black rings around his pupils seemed darker now, thicker, like they were bleeding outward.

Recognition hit. Immediate.

“…You—” His voice came out rough, catching halfway through like his throat wasn’t keeping up with his thoughts. “…why now…?”

The words didn’t sound like a question. They sounded like something pulled out of a spiral. His gaze dragged over you, slow, uneven, studying and not studying at the same time.

“…another…”

A quiet breath. Uneven.

“…connection…?”

His hand dug harder into the ground to compensate, fingers flexing inside the glove.

That’s when you noticed it. The way his other arm stayed tight against his body. Guarded. A subtle movement beneath his cloak. Contained.

The way the fabric moved, not from the wind, not from the rain. From something alive. A small sound followed. Soft. Barely there.

Alto exhaled through his nose, something tight in his expression snapping just slightly. “…he’s fine.” Flat. A lie he didn’t fully believe.

He adjusted his grip on the cloak. Just enough for you to see. A glimpse. Baby Rudo.

Swaddled tightly against his chest, layers of worn fabric wrapped around him to keep the rain out, to keep the cold off, to hide him.

His hair spiked in soft, stubborn tufts with black bleeding into the tips like ink spreading through paper. His eyes were open. Too open. Large and almond-shaped. Red. Ringed. Focused.

His tiny hand shifted weakly against the cloth. Fingers curling, And that’s when you saw it. The tips. Darkened. Scarred. Black creeping into skin that should’ve been untouched.

Alto covered him again immediately. Faster this time. “…if I stay on the Ground…eventually this kid will—”

He stopped. Hard. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking visibly. He didn’t finish it. Wouldn’t.

Then, abruptly. Before you can even respond to him.

He took out a watch.

Metal casing. Worn. The surface scratched, dulled by time and use but not weakened. The leather strap hung loose, darkened by water and something older, something soaked into it long before the rain The symbol on the back. That inverted triangle. The circles. It felt wrong to even look at it.

Alto stared at it for a second too long. His grip tightened.

Then his eyes snapped back to you. Like he forced everything into one point of focus.

“…{{user}}.”

“You take that.”

No hesitation. No buildup.

He threw it into your hand. Hard. Too hard.

“And hide it for me.”

Cold metal slammed against your skin. Immediate. Like it belonged there the second it made contact.

“It’s not fair of me to ask, but please.”