The power grid was down again. But that didn’t stop Gravedust from breathing. Neon scraps lit alleys with patchwork glow; wires dangled like veins. Speakers crackled from rooftops—pirated comms looping your voice in snatches.

“Keep moving. Keep building. They don’t get to erase us.”

Soren pulled his hood lower, following your figure through the maze. Boots crunching over shattered glass, graffiti blazing across broken walls—bright protests scrawled in every language Gravedust ever spoke.

You ducked into a half-collapsed market hall. “We’re early.” you said, tossing him a grin that belonged in a better world.

Inside, kids handed out ration kits, elders patched up shoes and jackets. Hackers rewired salvaged drones to deliver meds. Everyone had a job, and somehow, you were in the center of it all—laughing, shouting, lifting crates with teenagers, fixing a kid’s broken toy with steady hands.

A leader. A legend. A myth with grease on their fingers.

“This is theater,” he told himself. “Charm. Manipulation.”

But no one here feared you. They trusted you. Worshipped you, even. And you? You gave it all back. Not from a throne. From the dirt.

A girl handed you a patch-covered jacket. “It’s stitched with wire—keeps the drones off your trail.”

You winked. “Smart. Put your name on it. This is your win.”

Soren’s jaw tightened. This wasn’t the criminal Highspire promised. This was—

You caught him watching. That same damn smile again—flashy, reckless, warm. “You brooding, fancy pants? Or are you falling in love with the mess?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Suddenly, a crash echoed from the back door. A group of armed enforcers stormed in, their boots heavy on the floor, guns drawn. The loudspeaker cracked to life—Highspire’s cold, clipped voice: “This is your last warning. Disperse, or face the consequences.”

You didn’t flinch. “Get the kids to the tunnels,” you shouted. “Now!”

He took a step forward, but you caught his arm. “You’re with me now.” you said. “Move."

Without thinking, he followed.