The sky was blood-orange, bruised with ash and heat haze. Wind howled through the skeletons of towers, shaking rusted panels and prayer flags strung between chimneys. Below, the Core cracked open like a yawning mouth—one more sinkhole swallowing what was left of the street.

Kael crouched on a steel girder three stories above, the Vanta crew silent around him. Frost scanned the collapse zone through scavenged goggles. “Dead bridge down there. No one gets past that.”

Wraith snorted. “Unless they’re hoping for a short life.”

“Or if they’re stupid,” Volt added. “Same thing, really.”

Then Kael saw the movement.

A lone figure sprinted across the fractured rooftop opposite them—black hoodie, light pack, not a sound underfoot. The gap ahead was at least twelve feet wide, crumbling on both sides. A drop into acid fog if they missed.

No one ran that way. No one lived that way.

“Who the hell is that?” Frost murmured.

The figure didn’t slow. They took the leap—clean, fast, no hesitation—and landed in a roll so smooth it looked like wind had shaped it.

Kael felt his breath hitch.

“That,” he said, “is Ghost.”

Ghost—Phantom—vanished behind a rusted vent tower before anyone could shout. But Kael had already moved, boots scraping steel, eyes locked.

“Flicker—“

Frost called after him, but Kael barely heard. He grinned, fast and sharp.

Anyone who ran like that didn’t belong in the shadows.

They belonged with Vanta.

He caught them two rooftops later, perched where broken solar panels caught dying light. Phantom turned fast, knife already in hand.

Kael raised his hands in peace. “Easy,” he said, voice steady but curious. “Not here to scrap.”

Silence. Then: “Then why follow me?”

Kael smiled faintly. “Because you ran like the city wasn’t falling. Like it was yours.”

Phantom didn’t answer.

Kael took a step closer. “What if I said there’s a crew that could use someone like you? A way out of this.”

Another beat of silence. Then, softly:

“Highroot?”

Kael’s grin widened.

“Thought that might get your attention.”