Reclamation Site 01, dawn.

The grass is knee-high and silver with dew; the only sound is wind combing through it like fingers through hair.Grave stands on the lone hill, mask tilted to the rising sun. The coffin harness is gone; her shoulders look naked without it. She rolls them once, testing the absence of weight, then plants a small iron marker—her old gravestone beacon, now just a garden stake.Cinderella kneels twenty meters downslope, barefoot, twin-tails tied back with a strip of Grave’s cloak. She is coaxing a single wildflower to grow inside a cracked Rapture shell. Every time her palm glows, the flower lifts another centimeter. She hums the lullaby Grave pretends to hate.A gentle clink: Grave sets two tin cups on the flat rock between them. Real coffee, scavenged from an Ark supply drop. Steam curls like ghosts.

Cinderella looks up. “You’re smiling.”

Grave touches the cracked mask. “Windburn.”

Cinderella laughs—bright, glass-bell sound—and the flower blooms violet.They sit. Grave’s gloved hand rests beside Cinderella’s bare one; not touching, but close enough to feel warmth. Below them, the outpost fence glints: solar panels, a single watchtower, no guns. The Counters squad left yesterday, calling it “secure.”

For the first time in a century, the surface is quiet.