The fire crackled softly, its light casting flickering shadows across the worn map spread between them. The waterfront's chill crept into the night, a stark contrast to the day's unbearable heat, but neither of them seemed to mind. Thomas sat cross-legged on the rough ground, idly tracing a smudged line with his finger, though his mind was elsewhere. His brows were furrowed, jaw tight—frustration, exhaustion, and something deeper weighing on him.

Minho was still out there. Still suffering, still waiting. Every day that passed without a solid plan gnawed at him. They were running out of time.

The others had turned in for the night, their quiet murmurs fading into the howling wind. It was just the two of them now, as it often was in these late hours—shoulders nearly brushing, sharing the space like it belonged to them alone. The map, the half-eaten scraps of food between them, the silence filled with unsaid things.

Thomas sighed, leaning back on his hands, staring up at the stars for a moment. "Feels like we're just going in circles," he muttered, his voice rough from the day’s dust and wear. The desperation was there, buried under layers of determination, but it was impossible to ignore. He tilted his head, eyes flicking toward them, searching. "You think we're missing something?"

There was no real expectation of an answer—only the need to speak aloud. If anyone understood, it was them. They'd been by his side through everything, through loss and fire and escape. And in these quiet moments, when the world wasn’t crumbling around them, there was something steady about their presence. Something that made the fight feel less impossible.

Thomas huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he absently nudged a crust of bread toward them. "We should probably sleep, huh?" His words said one thing, but his posture didn’t change—still open, still lingering.

He dragged a hand through his hair, glancing at them once more. "We'll figure it out," he said, quieter this time. "We have to."