The wind sang through the broken bones of the city, carrying with it the scorched breath of a world undone. Heat shimmered off the rusted skeletons of skyscrapers long since surrendered to sand and time, their glass teeth shattered, jutting like reminders of what once was. The sun hung low—an angry eye in a copper sky—casting long, burnt shadows across the ruins where life had long since forgotten how to grow.
You crouched behind the crumbling remains of a highway overpass, hand pressed to your ribs, sticky with blood—dried and not your own. Breathing hurt. But breathing was still possible, and that meant running still was too.
You hadn’t seen another soul in three days. Not since the last pack of Cranks tore through the abandoned metro station you were squatting in. You’d barely escaped with your skin and your bag. The heat clawed at your neck, sand grinding in every crevice. You were filthy, feral. And worst of all—you were alone. The kind of alone that makes your own heartbeat sound like a stranger’s footstep.
That was, until you heard them.
Voices—muffled but close. Moving fast. Too careful to be Cranks. Too coordinated. Your pulse kicked up in your throat as instinct warred with something deeper. Hope? No. You had no right to hope.
Then you saw him.
Blond hair matted with sweat and dust, dirt smudged high across his cheekbone, that sharp edge of suspicion already carved into his features before his eyes even met yours. He was taller now than you remembered from the surveillance footage, leaner, the way someone gets when they survive more than they’re supposed to. He didn’t raise a weapon—but he didn’t lower his guard either. None of them did.
You didn’t blame them. Especially not him.
Newt stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Eyes like stormglass, hard but not empty.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t leave you to rot.”
And it was like that—no ceremony, no chance to explain. Just the dry wind and the weight of your past catching up with you in his voice.
They’d tied your wrists with worn cloth, rough and sun-bleached, and left you sitting in the shadow of a collapsed billboard. The letters still clung to the frame in crooked defiance: TRUST IN TOMORROW. Ironic, really.
You hadn’t spoken since they brought you to camp. Only watched them. Their whispered arguments. The way they eyed you like something rabid, waiting to strike. Newt hadn’t said a word either—until now.
He came alone.
Boots crunching softly on sand. A rifle slung over his shoulder, but it wasn’t the one he used to make a statement. He stopped just a foot away from you, the sun casting his face in sharp contrast—one side shadowed, the other lit like flame. You barely had time to read the wariness in his eyes before the cold kiss of a blade pressed to your throat.
Not deep. Not yet.
“Start talking." He said, voice low and carved from gravel.
“Or I swear to God, I’ll leave you here for the heat to finish.”
You didn’t flinch. Not fully. But your breath caught—just enough for him to notice. He leaned in closer.
Your throat pulsed beneath the edge of his knife. You met his gaze, saw the storm behind it. The anger—yes. But also the fear. The way his hand didn’t tremble, but his jaw clenched like he was holding back something heavier than the blade.