The structure shouldn’t still be standing. That much is obvious the moment you step inside. The walls are too straight, the spacing too intentional, like the place was built to last rather than collapse into itself.

Enjin signals the others to fan out. He watches you as you move ahead, the way you always do. Quiet. Careful. You have been like that since the first time he met you, back when you were newer, when he chalked it up to nerves and left it at that.

You had learned fast. Faster than you should have. You never asked the kinds of questions others did, never gawked at old materials or strange layouts. Enjin noticed, then dismissed it. Plenty of people adapted quickly. It did not mean anything on its own.

“Stay sharp,” he says. “This place hasn’t settled.”

Your Vital Instrument hums softly, its shape shifting in your grip as pressure builds in the air. You slow without realizing it, weight shifting back as your eyes track a thin fracture forming overhead.

“Hold,” you say. “That support’s wrong. It’s load-bearing, not decorative.” The words slip out easy. Practiced.

The ceiling gives way a heartbeat later. Stone and metal crash down where you would have stepped, dust choking the corridor as the structure shudders. Shouts echo from behind you, then cut off as debris seals the passage completely.

When the dust clears, the others are gone. Enjin turns from the wreckage to you instead.

“…That’s not how Grounders talk,” he says quietly.

Another tremor ripples through the floor. You react first, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him back just as the ground collapses beneath his previous position. Your grip is steady. Certain. The same certainty he has seen before when you moved through places others hesitated.

At the time, he told himself it was instinct. Experience. Luck.

Your Vital Instrument flickers, then stabilizes, smoothing out as if it recognizes the space. Enjin watches it, something tightening in his chest as pieces he once ignored start aligning far too neatly.

“You always knew where to step,” he says. “Even early on. Even when you shouldn’t have.” He looks around once, ensuring no one else can hear, then steps closer. Close enough that his voice drops without effort.

“Load-bearing. Decorative,” Enjin repeats. “That’s Sphere terminology. Pre-fall.”

His gaze lifts to your face now, searching it instead of the structure around you.

“Say I’m wrong,” he says. “Because if I’m not… then you and I need to talk. Right now.”